From Here, Light
by ColgateKiss
Summary: AU in which John Watson is a third-year medic at Cambridge University, and Sherlock Holmes the upstart Fresher he unwittingly inherits as a College Son. And what happened then...  Slash
1. Chapter 1

Title: From Here, Light  
>Fandom: Sherlock BBC<br>Pairing(s): Sherlock/John  
>Rating: Eventual NC-17 (this chapter PG for language)<br>Word Count: 1,488  
>Warning: bad language<br>Disclaimer: I borrow them, I don't own them.

Summary: _AU in which John Watson is a third-year medic at Cambridge University, and Sherlock Holmes the upstart Fresher he unwittingly inherits as a College Son. And what happened then ... Dunston is, of course, not a real Cambridge college. _

It was ten in the morning and the thin October sun had finally appeared above the tall stone parapets, washing John in it's weak light. Slightly warmer than before, though, he could slide his blanket off a bit. John cracked open his third beer of the day - Red Stripe - and took a grateful slurp, leaning back in his deckchair, shoeless feet resting in front of him on the balcony's edge.

_Favourite day of the year_, he thought, _definitely_. As a third-year medic he was now, finally and officially, top of the undergraduate heap at Dunston College and looking forward to a relatively easy year of clinical placements, following the patient pathway and hard drinking. Maybe pull a Fresher too, why not.

A hard thump as Greg dropped down next to him, pawing at his own can of Red Stripe, face unshaven and baggy-eyed, "Shove up Watson, you're hogging the bloody view". He crunched his deckchair against John's, trying to jimmy him out of the way. "Are they out yet?"

John shook his head, "Nah, always takes longer than you'd think, all that Latin, _Hinc lucem et pocula sacra, _bollocks bollocks bollocks."

Greg snorted a little piggy laugh, "What's that then? I promise not to ... bring the college into disrepute?"

"Drink before noon, I think is the direct translation," John grinned around his beer can.

"Um ... join the rowing team ..."

John grimaced, "God no, the apes." He glanced at the window behind them rather wickedly and raised his voice, "I promise not to get fucked up on pro-plus and have to re-take third year!"

"Fuck off, you bastards!" The protest came from the room behind the window, and Molly appeared at it's open face with a mini bottle of wine in one hand and a bacon butty in the other, "I wasn't ... _fucked up_ ... I had been revising _very_ hard and hadn't had _any _sleep and I just wanted to be ... alert!"

"Oh you were," agreed John, clapping a cheerful hand on her shoulder which hung out of the window as she tried to clamber up onto the balcony, handless, "You were _extremely_ alert."

"Exceedingly alert!" laughed Greg.

Molly glared, "Oh bugger off." She sat down precariously on one of the stone balustrades that punctuated the balcony, "And if you want breakfast you'd butter hop to it, the buttery's about to shut shop."

"Ugh", John wrinkled his nose in distaste, "No fear. I don't know how you eat that shit. It's not been near a pig, ever."

Molly rolled her eyes, "Same argument, different Michaelmas.** Bloody cold, I'm bored. Are they out yet?"

"Still no. Done soon though I reckon." John looked along the balcony, where the second and third years had gathered looking down onto Dunston's main courtyard, bringing beer and breakfast (a few windows away, three girls had actually lugged a _bucket_ of what looked like Pimms out with them and were attacking it with long straws) to watch the matriculation of the college's new intake. Freshers - fresh meat, and the peanut gallery had come out to play with their food.

It had always been tradition at Dunston to torture Freshers (records from the fourteenth century proved it), just a little, particularly on their first official day as Dunstonites. They would pour out of the Great Hall on a crisp and sunny October morning, proud in their brand new college gowns, all clean, nervous and hopeful. And come face to face with a jeering mob of older students in varying states of undress and drunkenness. And just when they had come to terms with the fact that these, apparently, were their new 'friends', the egg throwing would begin. Cruel, but every Fresher had put up with it, and so every undergraduate passed on the humiliation when they had the opportunity.

Greg flipped open a 12-pack of eggs, "Choose your weapon of choice, John. Brown, speckled, large or small, are we going for accuracy or a general scattergun approach?"

Molly leaned over to look, "Are those free range? I hope they're free range."

"What?" John was open-mouthed, "We're _throwing _them at people Molls, _throwing them_."

"Don't worry Molly", Greg smirked, "I'm sure the chickens are at peace. Look, just take a few, John. And you Molly, put the butty down it isn't going anywhere. Load up, people."

They passed the eggs round carefully, it wouldn't do to break one and have to navigate the sticky mess when they were perched so high above the ground. Laden with their ammunition, they sat.

And sat.

"You said soon." Molly's small voice echoed plaintively around the balcony, as a hundred odd students began to get restless.

"Shut up," muttered Greg, "Just ... wait."

John settled back, eggs in arms. He was actually quite content to wait, letting the beer buzz around comfortably in his bloodstream, and the sun warm his head.

Molly and Greg bickered quietly to each other in his periphery. He wasn't quite sure how they'd formed their little group. No, he knew Greg from rugby, of course. Greg Lestrade was captain of the team (and captain of mixed lacrosse, men's footie and quite randomly, golf) and John was a useful if not supremely talented Scrum Half. They had bonded over rugby, loathing of boarding schools, great relationship with beer and their shared lazy cynicism and love of an easy life.

Molly, though ... she just sort of appeared in their lives. She had been in the year above, one of those girls who worked very hard all day and then got very drunk all night, wearing sparkly dresses and lots of blusher. Too busy and fevered to get to know John and Greg in any meaningful way, unless it had been to pull them (which she hadn't seemed keen on when Greg tried) A typical Eleanor Holles girl, slightly more ambitious than the norm because she had chosen medicine rather than Classics, but essentially a lovely, upper-middle girl who would have a husband rather than a career.

That is, until she veered wildly off the rails. Well, wildly for _Molly_. John suspected she simply hadn't been able to cope with the pressure anymore. She became almost a recluse, emerging from her room only to snag mini bottles of wine from the college bar at closing time, when it was generally quietest.

This is where John had noticed her, as he nursed a quiet Guinness and reading Goldberg's _Clinical Anatomy Made Ridiculously Simple_ (which was not, unfortunately, living up to it's title). She looked exhausted, wearing clothes that were clearly two days old, her hair unbrushed and eyes far too shiny.

He stretched out a hand, waving towards her, "Molly, Molly Hooper, you alright?" and as she turned towards his kind eyes and small, gentle smile, her entire being seemed to sag.

She walked towards him, wine in hand, and sat down on the sofa opposite, knees touching his.

"No, John. I don't think so. Not really, no."

And that was that. He had to hug her. And somehow, she was just ... John's friend. And as a result, Greg's. When she crashed out of her exams, he hugged her, and when she came back the next year, he made sure they were in the same house together. John loved an underdog, and a project. And while she and Greg had a love/hate sort of a friendship, John thought Molly was the bees knees. There's nothing like a public schoolgirl who has realised that actually, she just wants to hang out and have a decent time, rather than living up to expectations. John often wondered why he didn't fancy her. He should've done, something rotten. But perhaps it was better this way. Less mess, less fuss, less inevitable breakup with some pretty girl sobbing, "It's as if you don't even care about me, John..."

John doubted the Freshers would make much impact on their lives together, their little group of three. He planned to be drinking with the rugby crew and spending lots of time changing catheters up at Addenbrooke's Hospital. But maybe there'd be some totty. One could always hope.

"Look look look!" Molly squealed in abject excitement as the great wooden door opened inwards, leaving a black space through which the Freshers would come, "They're here, they're here, get ready!"

Greg sat up violently, almost juggling his eggs. John braced himself, ready to jeer as loudly as he could, as the first of the new year's intake walked into the light, blinking ...


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2 is here! All comments/critique much appreciated. Chapter 3 up in a couple of days … in which things get a lot more exciting!_

The jeering had finally abated, John having let rip some choice obscenities (mostly referencing female dogs) in the general direction of the Freshers, indiscriminately insulting one and all. He loved the feeling of anarchy mixed with tradition, and revelled in the fact that he was a third year, safe, experienced, home.

He could have carried on, but the Master of the College (Lord Wallopstone, or The Lord Our God, as he was affectionately nicknamed by the students) had appeared to chair proceedings, and politely asked for a little quiet. No man could shut up a hundred drunken young people like Lord Wallopstone, who as much a part of Dunston college as it's thirteenth century foundations.

John, like the others, had obeyed, retreating back to his beer, his deckchair, and a book. Once the official Freshers photo was taken (this process could take an age, as the photographer tried to herd the new students into some semblance of order and presentability), it would be open season for the egg-throwing, but til then John was just concerned with preserving his energies.

Greg's eyes flicked restlessly over the swarm of human bodies, "Average, average, porker, average, nice tits shame about the face, average, av-"

"Greg!" Molly snapped irritably, "I've had it up to here with your misogyny", she made a violent hacking motion in the general direction of her neck.

"If you can't say anything decent about a girl, don't say anything."

Greg waggled his eyebrows and made a zipping motion with his fingers across his lips, a study in contrition. Across the Court Ardeep and Jamie, two other members of the rugby team, waved as they tried to make the telescope they had erected focus down the top of a particularly busty girl.

Another beer cracked open, Greg began again, but was wise enough to mutter under his breath, "Nice arse, average, average, yes I would, average, alien, av-"

"Alien?" John looked up from the copy of the British Journal of Hospital Medicine he had fished out of his rucksack once his mate's monologue had become too predictable to listen to any longer, "I wasn't aware that 'Alien' was a recognised category."

"It isn't," Greg huffed, "But I've just found someone that fits, so it will be from now on."

John shook his head, "Have to disagree: only categories sanctioned by the general college population are allowed. Else how will we judge our peers effectively?" A naughty little smile settled on his lips as he waited for a reaction. Greg took his categories _very _seriously.

"John. _John_. This guy is not a porker, a nice tits/bad face, a nice arse, a Yes I Would, a geek or a potential drinking buddy. And he is definitely not average. He defies the current system of classification!"

John rolled his eyes. "Alright, I'll have a look. I'm sure we can stuff him into some box or another." He levered himself to his feet, the cartilage in his knees and toes crackle as he stretched luxuriously. He shuffled over to the edge of the parapet, leaning over on his elbows, and looked down.

"Which one am I looking at?"

Greg pointed, "follow the finger."

Later on, in the early hours of the morning, sickeningly drunk with the taste of vomit on his tongue, John would lie awake and relive those innocent minutes in which he had been so … prelapsarian, so unaware of what was about to happen to him. Or indeed, _who_ was about to happen _at_ him. And part of him would yearn for the ease with which he had existed, the pleasantly fuzzy view of a simple world he had had as he followed the line of Greg's outstretched arm, tracked it across clean, cold air, skimmed across the faces below and –

"Oh," He felt as if his breath had been surgically removed from his body, like a punch to the solar plexus. His blood which had been made slow and lazy by beer suddenly became mercurial, screaming through his veins for release, and he could hear the frantic race of his pulse in his ears: BoomBoomBoom.

_Oh._

Only with a huge effort was John finally able to catch his breath and impose some sort of will on it, forcing air through his clenched teeth. He had no words for what was happening to his body, no words at all - mind in paralysis - like Greg had said, this defied all his systems of classification.

Had he been looking at a girl, he'd call this lust. Deep, deep lust. And he would be planning on cornering her later, in the college bar, and being as charmingly, affably 'John Watson' at her, until she adored him. But this was not a girl. And neither was it a petite, pretty boy (the sort that, if you've been forced to spend a few years boarding with boys, it generally becomes 'alright' to find attractive). This was a Boy, so close to being a man, replete with sinew, taller than John.

_I forbid this to happen._

"Oh."

_No. Say something other than 'Oh', please, you're being watched._

"He's certainly … something. Alien."

_Weak, John, weak._

Tall. Macro observation. Lean, very lean, hips like a whippet. A head of dark, dark riotous curls that had clearly been forced into a side parting, now escaping said side parting and drifting over the boy's eyes in the breeze. High, high cheekbones, exhilaratingly high, and that mouth … it's cupid bow was the most pronounced John had ever seen, almost profanely defined, as if God had marked the boy's lips for something. And finally, he had wanted to think on the eyes a little longer, those eyes that looked almost monstrous and yes, these did deserve that title: Alien.

Beauty … at once sacred, disturbing, chilling. John knew he would never be able to look at this boy with indifference, that he would always notice, that the boy's face would whisper to him in the voice of an intimate friend, or a despised enemy.

_Look up, look up ..._

The boy did not oblige, his attention roving restlessly - long fingers pulling at the pleats in his college gown, a disapproving, mildly disgusted gaze over his peers, his back straight as a pillar and his brow furrowed in a glorious frown, a polite nod to the Master of the College, who was standing off to the side, watching proceedings, and back to watching the other Freshers with distaste.

_How strange, _thought John, _he is everything, at this moment, and has no clue._

John wasn't so much worried about the fact that the boy he was looking at was a boy (not the right sort of boy, of course, but still) - though, no, actually, that was fucking weird. It was more the fact that John had never had this sort of a reaction to anyone, ever. Anyone, _ever._

Of course, he could separate a pretty girl from a plain one, and spot a decent pair of jugs a mile off. And when he saw pretty girls, and nice bodies, he wanted them. Because ... well because. Because that's what a bloke did, wasn't it? But it was always an easy sort of a want, the way he fancied a Guinness sometimes but would happily settle for a lager, or the way he wanted to watch Never Mind the Buzzcocks tonight, but would probably fall into a drunken stupor and completely forget about it.

Never, never, the feeling of his viscera twisting inside him, of every vein singing, his lungs expanding so large, and contracting so small inside his chest he thought they would break free and fly away, the hairs on his arm standing to prickling attention so he wanted to itch all over. He took a shaky breath, and another, clawing for some semblance of normal feeling.

A meaty hand weaved in front of John's face, "Oi, John boy, look sharp. Photo's almost over - egg time!"

Greg was almost glowing with the happy prospect of pelting the Freshers with eggs.

"Um..." John mumbled, "Yep. Yep. Alright. Give me a sec, " he scratched at his eyes with his short, neat nails - his retinas ached as if he'd been staring into the sun.

_Snap out of it, John, man up. He's just a Fresher. You can just avoid him pretty easily, sorted._

Molly sighed, finally looking away from the crowd. Greg had pointed her towards the boy too, and John noticed that her reaction had not been as dramatic as his own, "Hmm. Yeah I see what you mean, he does look a bit .. you know … out there. But sexy, like."

"Now who's being misogynistic?" Greg nudged her foot with his.

"You mean misandry," Molly replied, waving her wine around airily, "Oaf."

John flinched, irrationally irritated by the bickering he usually found so benign, amusing, even.

"Heads up," whispered Greg, voice tight with excitement. Below, the photographer had stopped taking shots and was scrolling through the images, frowning slightly. Then, he gave a short, decisive nod and turned to the Master of the college, giving him a thumbs up.

Watching from above, the Dunstonites tensed, ready to deliver the onslaught.

John weighed an egg in his hand – this was no longer the best day of the year, why should he even bother?

"Not yet, John," Molly misinterpreted his shifting about as eagerness, "Let the Master get out of the firing line first, we don't want to be sent down in the very first week of Michaelmas."

John grunted.

"Come on then…" Greg leaned forward impatiently as the Master shook hands with the photographer, and gestured towards his private study, perhaps intending to offer the man a pot of tea. The Master cleared his throat and held up his hands for quiet,

"Thank you for being so very patient ladies and gentleman, and I hope you all enjoyed your matriculation, it is indeed a special event. I matriculated to Dunston in 1967 and remember the feeling well. Now, I'm sure you will all want to be unpacking, settling in and so forth. There are drinks in the bar this evening, put on by our wonderful Social Rep Evelyn Wallop. Do pop by at seven if you're able. And tomorrow morning at nine, a chance to learn more about some of the varied activities we have at Dunston - at an event we call Huffers - where our team captains and leaders of groups from Drama to Knitting will be talking about their respective areas. Tea and finger sandwiches will be laid on. Please do show willing – it will be in Counsel Court however should the weather prove inclement, we can move to the JCR. Right."

The Master paused to stroke his beard thoughtfully,

"I shall see you all tomorrow and hope to extend my welcome to you individually. For now I shall take my leave, but do take pause, as my esteemed second and third years have, I believe, something of a welcome gift for you."

And thus delivering the poor young things into the frankly despicable hands of John and his cohort, the Master sauntered off with the photographer, closing the door to his study firmly behind him.

It took less than a second for the first egg to fly.

And another second for chaos to descend on the Great Court as the Freshers' cries of shock turned to horror, which became strangled shouting as they scrambled around trying to retreat.

A couple, John noticed, were taking it rather well, dodging with purpose and grinning at each other - that sort tended to be Dunston legacies (the most recent in a long line of a family who had chosen Dunston as their Alma Mater) and had probably been through a similar process at whatever boarding school they'd been to. Jon certainly had, at Eton. It had taken weeks to get the smell of fish out of his socks.

He still hadn't thrown any eggs, and Greg had just noticed, pausing mid-hurl,

"Johnny, what are you bollocksing about for, _throw_ you nancy!"

Even Molly was getting into it, finding her throwing strength and whooping with glee,

"You can run but you can't hide, little people!"

John looked at the egg in his hand. _Alright, this can still be a good day. _He picked his target: an innocuous looking girl with straight, mid-brown hair and a smattering of freckles, who had taken a couple of hits already but was still far off being out for the count. Turning the egg in his palm, John arced his arm back, tensed to throw –

"Ow!" Molly exclaimed to his right as she stubbed her toe against the wall and in doing so, reached out to brace against John, sending his balance off-kilter just, _just_ as he let the egg fly.

His careful aim was ruined, and he had no idea which body the egg had hit, if any He steadied Molly, "Alright there love?"

Molly nodded, practically recovered already "Yep, bearing up. Um, can I borrow an egg?"

"I will require it back, intact" John said, all faux-seriousness as he handed over an egg, "And don't do anything silly with it."

Molly giggled, "Yes Doctor."

Feeling marginally more normal, John nodded and turned back to what now looked like a re-enactment of the final scenes in Lord of the Flies. Instantly, his stomach lurched wildly and his diaphragm tightened to the point of pain.

"Shit."

'Who he'd hit' was staring at him with nothing less than absolute venom in his eyes. In his definitely-blue, feline eyes, and below it a lip twisted in a sneer as if with his very look he could bring the wrath of the gods on John's head. The boy lifted a finely boned hand to his hair, and carefully picked out a large, slimy piece of eggshell. The rest of him was absolutely spotless – John's egg had been the only one to make contact. He examined the broken shell with a violent sort of disinterest, before dropping it and then very, very deliberately crushing it under an expensive leather shoe. He ground it into dust.

The message was clear: John was in trouble.

"Shit."

The eyes swivelled back to John, tight at the edges with barely controlled rage. And when he was sure, entirely sure, that he had John's absolute and full attention he blinked, slow as a hunting cat, and his lips moved – deliberately over-accentuating the words so that John stood the best chance of lip reading, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."

John knew his face must be a study in anguish, trying as best he could to convey the deepest sense of regret through his eyes alone. This had no effect on the boy who, having wiped as much egg as he could from his hair and then hands – all the while keeping his poison gaze on John – pivoted on one heel, the gown whipping around him with a snap, and strode rapidly from the Great Court.

John watched him go, frozen in place, horrified.

_Shitty shit shit._

Slowly, the court returned to a state of calm as eggs ran out and throwing arms grew weary. Some Freshers had fled, some had stuck around and were now being greeted by the older students,= who had come down from the balcony full of cheerful and insincere apologies and offers of a drink later to make up for things.

Greg nudged John with his shoulder, "That was classic mate, you got the Alien. Amazing, I mean, actually wonderful!"

"Greg don't be a bully," Molly admonished, "He looked pretty pissed off didn't he? Think you'll be buying him a beer later on."

John flinched, "Why on earth would I be buying him a drink? Don't be an idiot! … sorry." He apologised for Molly's hurt look. He sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted to his very bones.

"I've got to go, guys, that was great but … work to do. I'll … um, I'll see you at supper alright?"

He had to be alone, somewhere cool, somewhere silent, where thinking would be possible, if not easy. He abandoned his beer, feeling queasy, and against Greg and Molly's confused protests he clambered through the window, escaping into the innards of the building. He crossed through Molly's messy room quickly, out into the hall, taking the stone steps two at a time until he reached the cold, quiet courtyard behind the row of rooms.

He leaned his forehead against the cool stones, moving it slowly so his skin scraped gently against the slate.

"Oh. Oh God. Oh good God," a desperate and pleading refrain, fingertips pressed against the wall too now, rocking back and forth, "Oh..."

Again, that nameless and confusing panic, that feeling of being adrift at sea with no compass, no oars. John was not the sort to be swept away by anything, he had always thought of himself rather like a rock – impenetrable and unchanging, despite the changing world. A practical, solid sort of bloke, dependable and unexciting. He _valued_ these qualities in himself, and had never envied the melodramatics that his friends and girlfriends had been prey to. Gay, gay was alright. Not ideal, but … alright. He'd been to Eton for God's sake, he knew his way around a quick fumble in another boy's boxers. But this … this was not that. This was other. This could _not_ go on.

It took two hours, an entire teapot of Earl Grey and one worrying episode of hyperventilation before John was again the master of his own mind, able to rationalise that while he may have had an intense physical reaction to the boy (the lack of an actual _erection_ aside, John could comfortable categorise what he'd experienced as simple lust) that was all that it was. And that, that was alright. Easy to ignore, relatively, and as there was no reason why he'd ever have to talk to the boy, easy to avoid. Added to this was the fact that the boy now clearly loathed John (he wouldn't admit it to himself, but that thought made John's stomach tighten uncomfortably), so would be unlikely to want to have anything to do with him.

Yes, everything was going to be alright, life would continue as usual. And the little voice in his head that kept repeating the word 'denial' could shove it.

So. Library. John had an essay on the distinction between 'dead' and 'alive' to tackle, and wanted to listen to a recording of a Wellcome medical history lecture that he'd managed to miss last term.

Passing his key-card over the scanner, John let himself into the library. He would work through lunch, he thought, not quite trusting himself to sustain a façade of easy humour in front of a large group of people, and then he's make an appearance at supper. He sat down in front of his stack of books (most students kept books at 'their' seat in the library, some seemed to have half their belongings in there). Taking in the amount of reading he was going to have to cram into the day, John shook his head. He flipped open his copy of Human Embryology and sighed.

"Once more unto the breach."


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this has taken SO long! Ridiculous. I'm now back on the FH,L trail and chapters should be posted with something approaching reasonable frequency. All comments gratefully received!**

John had been harried by worry, almost minute to minute, since seeing that slip of a boy with his burning eyes and his devil glare. He assumed he'd see him in the library, the bar, the buttery or worse, that he'd bump into him in some close corridor or alone in the deer park at night, and face his wrath.

But, no. It had been a week. And the boy had disappeared into the ether, as if he had never really existed.

Slowly, John managed to stop looking over his shoulder, cease positioning himself with a clear view of the entrances in every room. Had, finally, lost the gnawing, rolling feeling in his belly whenever he left the sanctuary of his bedroom. He had not forgotten, no, he had just … acclimatised.

And it was in this spirit that he rolled out of bed and wandered down to the buttery in his pyjamas to meet Greg. They had lectures that morning - every morning really, but if Dunston weren't going to make the damn things compulsory then really, did they expect people to _go_? - and given their hangovers, bacon was the only cure.

John and Greg often had breakfast together, huddled in Dunston's perpetually cold great hall by candlelight (electricity installed by a forward-thinking Master in 1907, and ripped out by the next in 1915 - "Ridiculous. This will never catch on!" - never to be replaced) in their pyjamas.

Most of the students ate all their meals in hall - fully expecting the stodgy British staples slopped onto their plates, courtesy of an upbringing in boarding schools across the land.

And so breakfast, lunch and supper would be eaten together, before traipsing off to the same library, lecture hall or seminar. Through near-constant contact, the students became family to each other. Sometimes John wondered if he spent too much time with Greg and Molly. But it was comfortable. And what could be wrong with that?

"Morning!"

Greg was looking disgustingly cheerful.

John dropped his tray of fried breakfast onto the table, and began massaging his temples. He shot Greg a miserable glance,

"How. Are you. Alive."

The grin Greg flashed, John knew, he had copied directly from Tom Cruise in Top Gun. Good God.

"Too much of the old grog, eh?" Greg waggled his eyebrows, simultaneously stuffing mushrooms into his mouth with one hand, and waving a slice of fried bread with the other.

John's head felt thick as mud as he nodded,

"So much, mate. _So_ much. Rugby trials are tomorrow, am I right?"

Greg nodded in affirmation. Luckily, as co-captains they wouldn't have to actually trial themselves, but limping onto the pitch stinking of ale wouldn't create the best first impression.

"Don't worry, tomorrow, not today. Oh, but today is College Kids divvying out. Excited...?" Greg affected a sexy little dance, as if the prospect of gaining two college children was the most stimulating thing in the world.

Again, John shook his head, he found himself doing that rather often around Greg,

"College Kids are ridiculous, really though, aren't they?" he griped.

All the Cambridge colleges had a system in place to take care of Freshers which, in theory, John supported. At most colleges, this took the form of college mentors, or college aunts and uncles. Dunston was one of the very few that retained the concept of college parents and children – two older students who would 'marry' and then be allocated the equivalent of biological children from the freshers.

Dunston was particularly unique in that families would trace their own trees, and when a grandfather inadvertently snogged his college granddaughter, would make sure he had to do a yard of ale in penance for his incest.

Luckily, Dunston had absolutely no objection to gay marriage, so John and Greg had made a happy union in second year, with a lovely little ceremony in the college bar culminating in a round of tequila shots. John's own college parents had been a lovely couple called PK and Mike. PK was now married with children, and Mike was regularly having it off with a glamour model. So.

"I really have no interest in college kids right now," John protested, "I rue the day we even signed up."

Greg huffed,

"I will not be the sort of parents mine were to me – one spaghetti supper and they fucked off! Come on John. Remember the good times you had with _your _gay dads? They made sure we went to the best garden parties, the best formal swaps, they knew _all _the girls in ballet soc. Come on!"

John glowered at Greg over a forkful of egg.

"Don't you want to be as amazing as them?"

It was very hard to resist such a plaintive face, and John couldn't.

"Fine. Fine!" he jabbed the fork in the direction of Greg's nose, " You're a bugger, you know that? Fucking chav. We'd better get decent kids,"

But Greg's attention had already wandered, as he muttered,

"Famous last words ..."

"Hello boys!"

A rush of some sort of heady, thick perfume, blonde hair swinging, Mulberry bag plonking onto the table, and the arbitrator of their parental fate, herself, had settled herself on the bench next to Greg.

"John, you look like a death eater has been at you for breakfast, " her eyes flickered over John's ratty pyjamas in abject judgement before turning to the other boy, "Greg, charmed."

Greg's flirty smirk was suddenly present, in full force, "Daisy. Sweetheart. How are we?"

She matched his appraising look with her own,

"Wonderful. Et tu?" She flicked her eyes to John and muttered pointedly, "Brutus?"

John rolled his eyes. Daisy had had a strict 'I Hate John' policy ever since he had the temerity to unceremoniously dump her in second year. No good reason. Just a bit difficult going out with such a confirmed daddy's girl when the central male in her life was still quite obviously … daddy. And his Coutts card.

His silence seemed to confirm Daisy's decision to loathe him, and Daisy sneered delicately,

"Well, Greg, as I'm sure you know … college children are being allocated today," She paused for dramatic effect, twirling a strand of healthy, honey-blonde hair through her manicured fingers, "Of course, _you_ deserve a lovely college daughter. And voila, Bethan Foil-Green." She produced a picture from her bag with a flourish.

"Welsh, from the valleys, eighteen and while rather an idiot, very sweet. I present her to your altar."

John could see Greg was trying not to crow with delight. He sighed, waiting for Daisy to decide his fate.

"And John. Ah, _John_. Whilst I would love to give the co-captain of the rugby team the other lovely college daughter than he is duly owed … unfortunately you're a twat. So enjoy Sherlock Holmes. You have _earned it_."

With that biting statement, she rose to leave. Lighting fast, John grabbed her arm,

"What? What is a Sherlock Holmes?"

Just as quickly, John was aware of his hand pressing on Daisy's skin and let go, guilty. Daisy didn't seem to have noticed, enjoying his worried expression far too much.

"You haven't heard of the infamous Sherlock Holmes? Well, well. We'll see what a tearaway you really are, won't we, faced with a genuine freak. See you come running back to where you belong."

She paused, revelling in John and Greg's questioning gazes,

"Oh … if you insist,"

And she sunk gracefully back down into her seat, aware that other students in earshot had set their cutlery down and were trying to eavesdrop as discretely as possible. John noted this, realising that this Sherlock – whoever he was – was clearly college-wide news.

Daisy cleared her throat,

"Sherlock Holmes. Fresher, oddity. He lives in H Staircase and has quickly developed a reputation for being too, too antisocial and rude. Refuses to socialise, refuses to make decent conversation. A crime in and of itself."

She looked to Greg and John for confirmation. Greg was good enough to nod encouragingly, so Daisy continued,

"In addition, and brace yourselves … he conducts strange, um, experiments. Sulphur, it's the smell of sulphur that just seeps from his rooms, and … he plays the violin at every hour of the night and not even in tune, and apparently … he keeps dead bodies in the communal fridge."

John snorted loudly, completely killing the air of horror Daisy had tried to create.

"In the fridge?" he chuckled, "I lived in H staircase in first year, the fridges are tiny! Unless he's keeping pygmies, it isn't possible."

Daisy narrowed her eyes venomously,

"Laugh while you can, John Hamish Watson. You, my boy, are the one who will have to nurture the freak. Don't come to me for advice. Or rather," she slung her bag over her arm and stood, smirking, "_Do_ come for advice. And I'll be happy to give it: go and bugger yourself."

And with that, Daisy was gone.

Greg whistled under his breath,

"She's the devil, but she_ does_ know how to make an exit."

John nodded in exhaustion. He peered at his watch. Quarter to nine in the morning. He needed to go back to bed.

Greg piped up again, "I'm going to write a couple of notes to the kids, invite them to the pub tonight."

"The kids?" John was aware his face was creased in irritation, "We don't know the little fucks, they are _not _our _kids_!"

He immediately regretted the outburst at Greg's crushed expression,

"But John … if we don't take them, who will?" His eyes widened in a paroxysm of parental concern, eyelashes fluttering, "Daisy … she'll … she'll drown them!"

And that was how Gregory Lestrade found himself with a plate of hot breakfast down his shirt.

_Maybe,_ John found himself thinking as he tipped the plate, _I'm more shaken up than I thought._

Nevertheless, John found himself leaving the library early to get to the pub. If, he reasoned to himself, he was going to spend the evening with two Freshers, he was going to sink a couple of drinks first.

He found a quite corner in their chosen pub, The Eagle, and settled down with his first Leffe and a copy of the Scottish Medical Journal (he wouldn't have bothered with a subscription, but his grandfather paid for it out of some misplaced sense of patriotism).

After a while reading a rather pedestrian article on paragonimiasis, John glanced at his watch. 19:10. Everyone, bar John, was ten minutes late. He sighed. Took another gulp of ale.

Approximately a minute after that, John became aware of something – someone – watching him.

Slowly, very slowly, cautiously and as subtly as he could, John snaked his neck upwards, willing the capillaries in his eyes not to move too fast, trying to keep his eyelids hooded.

"Fuck."

He snapped his gaze back down to the journal. And then, _fuck_, in the safety of his thoughts. He hadn't meant to say that aloud. But fuck. The boy. Standing, watching him from the nearby bar. Doing nothing, just watching.

John felt as though he was trapped in a chrysalis, curled as he was in the armchair with his journal. Vulnerable, small. Smaller than usual.

John risked another flickering, faltering glance. Still watching.

Pretending to focus on words that are now streaming across the page like butterflies in bright sunlight, John's mind raced. What on earth was the boy doing here, now, after his unlikely disappearance from the face of Cambridge?

He heard footsteps coming towards his table. _Breathe, John, breathe …_

"The egg thrower," A voice of chocolate and arsenic, "Quite an aim you have. Have you considered a career as a sniper?

And now, John knew he had to look up. _Be brave._ And he did.

Immediately, John was struck by the boy's weirdish beauty, the violent, Picasso angles of his body and his face. Those condescending eyes and the height - so much taller than he realised, all protruding bones, so thin John could see the skull between the pale-as-moon skin.

John's mouth went dry. Thoughts jumped across his synapses making no sense, thoughts that were really wants or even needs and that meant nothing but everything and really what he wanted to do was touch just touch _just touch him shut up shut up!_

So he said the only thing that made sense, for some reason, though he had no idea where it came from:

"Eton, or Harrow?"

The boy's freakishly pale eyes narrowed, predatory.

"How could _you_ know that?" he asked silkily, voice ripe with danger, sliding a little closer, his black coat fanning out behind him like giant wings.

John shrugged, keen to play things down all of a sudden, "I dunno. Just - you look a bit posh, that's all."

"And you look like a third year medic with a mild alcohol addiction who plays too much rugby - watch that disc in your back in future - the product of a broken marriage with an older ... brother? Who is currently questioning his sexuality."

John's mouth fell open in awe, "How did you ...?"

"Because," the boy snarled softly, "I'm brilliant. The question is, how did _you_?"

Momentarily confused, John frowned, "Oh! Oh, it was just a ... a trick. You walk like a Harrovian. That silly march they make you all do to chapel. Obvious if you know." He offered up an innocent smile.

The boy looked down at him suspiciously, "Hmmm,"

John found himself, for some reason, keen to win him over, "It's nothing like what you just did. That was ... that was amazing."

The boy looked faintly bashful, but pleased, "That's ... not what people usually say."

"What do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

John laughed too loudly, surprised.

"Well," he choked back giggles and held out his hand, "I think it's wonderful. John Watson."

"I'm aware. The _egg thrower_." He eyed John's extended hand with mild distaste, leaving it hanging in mid-air, "Sherlock Holmes."

John let his hand drop.

"The infamous Sherlock Holmes... I should have known. Purveyor of dead things in fridges?"

Sherlock shrugged elegantly, "Temperature control is crucial, in scientific experiments. As a medic one would hope you understood at least the basic theory behind-"

"Of course," John interrupted, deciding it best not to ask; he imagined all people did with Sherlock was ask, "So ... I'm your college father."

Sherlock nodded, "Indeed. What an antiquated practice." He looked questioningly at the empty table, "Are you a single parent? How difficult. There are benefits you can apply for, you know. Though I'm certain I shall go off the rails without a steady male influence."

John realised that the worryingly high-pitched squeak had come from his own mouth. Sherlock was _funny_. Well, horrid, but ... yes, funny.

"Oi, um, I mean," he cleared his throat, "Oi. I'm extremely male ... mannish ... manly. Oh gosh. And no, you have another parent. He's just a bad father, and late. Are you ever going to sit down?"

Sherlock looked dubious, but sat, fussing with the folds of his coat. Once Sherlock was safely searted, John felt more in control than previously. Sherlock was less looming when sat, looked more like a normal sort of human being. John was still sweating slightly more than was normal, but his voice was steady and his hands were still. Relatively.

Sherlock sniffed, "The barkeep is absolutely useless. How does one get ..." he waved a distracted hand at John's beer, "alcohol?"

John grinned, and reached for his wallet.

"I'll go. You know Sherlock, If you didn't exist, I couldn't ever have made you up."

John had revised his opinion on Sherlock, he could no longer call him 'the boy' he realised - Sherlock was too tall and too harsh to be called anything as _innocent _as a boy. Whatever that naivety about him was, it wasn't boyish. John learned that Sherlock had indeed gone to Harrow, had an older brother named Mycroft whom he apparently loathed and hero-worshipped all at once, was reading Natural Sciences, and found almost everyone on the planet utterly plebeian.

"I simply don't understand how humanity survives, based on the daily stupidity I observe."

He quickly discovered that trying to compete with Sherlock on Sherlock's terms was useless. He found himself enjoying, instead, being a calming and measuring influence, and revelling in the occasional hint of a smile or flash of surprise when he said something witty or odd enough to disrupt Sherlock's assumptions about their conversation.

He hoped the look of irritation on Sherlock's face when Greg and Bethan arrived (or rather, when Greg arrived with Bethan in tow) did indeed mean that Sherlock had, in his own way, been enjoying their conversation too.

The girl looked like she'd been rather thoroughly kissed, a fact which escaped neither John, or Sherlock, as they exchanged glances (amused from John, blank acknowledgement from Sherlock).

Greg led Bethan to the table, "John! Look what I found, wandering the streets. A daughter!" he grinned.

He waved weakly, trying not to let his face betray his amazement that the girl had succumbed so very quickly.

Sherlock, unfortunately, had not yet had the 'not in public' lecture from John on this subject (he would, _many _times in the future, of course) and arched a dark eyebrow in the unsuspecting girl's direction,

"Would you describe yourself as promiscuous, or simply drunk?"

Bethan and Greg left not long after.

John elected to stay, strategically avoiding Greg's incredulous gaze.

They didn't actually stay at The Eagle much longer. John would happily have sat there all night, and noticed that Sherlock didn't seem sleepy at all, but he had a shift at the hospital beginning at 7am the next morning, so bed it was.

John kept up a steady pace of chat on the short walk back to Dunston, Sherlock making erudite comments when he deemed appropriate.

"I was at Eton. It was brilliant. Boarder. Apart from the pop trousers, they were vile. We all looked like Little Lord Fauntleroys! Not too bad if you're skinny but I'm, well, not."

Sherlock had hopped up to stroll along the long, low wall circumnavigating King's College, and peered down at John.

"You're certainly not _fat_. My brother is incredibly fat, vastly so. I'm rather an expert on the matter."

John shrugged easily, "Oh, I know. But I'm built like a brick. Too much rugby. Awful for pop trousers."

Sherlock gave a mysterious little smile, pushing open the gate to the Porter's Lodge for John, "Ah, rugby. I played, at school."

"Really?" John couldn't completely weed out the surprise from his voice, "You don't seem the, um, type."

"It was compulsory. All Harrovians _become_ the type. But actually, I wasn't bad."

"You should come to trials tomorrow. We're a half decent team you know. Second division."

Sherlock stopped at the entrance to H Staircase, his face half hidden in shadow.

"Perhaps. Unlikely, however." And before John could scrabble for a retort, or reach out his hand, he was gone, taking the steps two at a time, into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

John sighed, running his finger down the alphabetical list of names, making sure there was nothing he might mispronounce in front of the boys who would try for Dunston's Rugby First XV.

"Declan. Hmm. Declan ... Mooweearrheed? Muirehead. Right."

He heard Greg shuffle up behind him in his rugby boots, and the other boy's chin rested on John's shoulder, "Anyone we might know?"

"No," John shook his head, "I reckon this Orlando D'Arcy might be one of the Winchester D'Arcys, but they're such an extended family, who can tell."

"Mmm," Greg turned away to pull on his rugby shirt and adjust his cap, "They breed like rabbits. I think I've pulled a couple of the cousins. Anyway. Good turn-out this year, twelve people trying for it."

John merely nodded, humming an affirmative while continuing to stare blankly at the list.

"John," Greg said, twisting his mouthguard between his fingers and frowning, "You alright, mate?"

John, pretending the question was as innocuous as it might have been, twisted his mouth into a cocky little smile, "Yeah mate, of course."

But Greg wasn't finished, "You're a bit, um. And that bloke Sherlock, last night. Um. Look, you're my best mate. If you need anyone to ... you know... talk ... to..." he trailed off, wincing uncomfortably.

John laughed in surprise, "Oh God Greg, don't do this, come on, just beat the shit out of me on the pitch and we'll call it a hug, alright?"

The two men regarded each other for a moment before Greg cracked, grinned, and nodded.

"Right you are old son. Come on then, let's to it."

And they reverted to what they knew best, the loping jog of the sportsman, running out onto the ground to meet with the boys who would, hopefully, form the basis of a team that would be able to be competitive in the College Cuppers that year.

_Oh dear._John winced.

A motley crew, was probably the best way of putting it, and John's spirits dropped even more as he looked them over properly. A couple of big lads who might be able to do some scrum halfing, and a very muscly bloke who looked Polynesian, could work out. The rest ... _oh dear_. What had happened to _puberty_?

He could see the disappointment in Greg's eyes, but the Captain steeled himself to make his opening speech, squaring his shoulders.

"Gentlemen, we are gathered here for the sake of love. Love for our college, love for sport, and love ... for this." He held up the rugby ball as if it were a trophy. "Not all of you will be chosen for the First Fourteen, but I want you to give of your best, and not be -"

"So sorry, I thought these were the rugby trials, not Amateur Speechmaking for Imbeciles."

Greg blanched white, and all the assembled young men turned as one to face the owner of the voice. John knew, already, fighting a grin as he took in the sight of Sherlock looking hideously uncomfortable - and distressingly bare of leg - in a Harrow rugby kit.

Black and white striped looked very well on him, John thought. And, in the back of his mind, the rugby captain in him muttered, _Black and white Harrow kit? That means he's First Select. By God, he must actually be decent!_

Greg cleared his throat, "That's not on, rather rude. We don't tolerate that sort of attitude on this team." He glanced at his co-captain, " John, back me up."

John curled his fingers around his clipboard, "U-um. Well..."

"John!" Greg jerked his hands impatiently, "Tell the Fresher to piss off!"

John swallowed, trying to find his balance again, and flicked his eyes to the boy who stood there silently, imperiously, all calm and studied arrogance,

"Yes, Mr. Watson. Do tell me to piss of, why don't you. Never mind the fact that you're already gravely disappointed with this group of reprobates, suspicious that your team this year will lack the essential skills to handle a ball let alone win a game, and have no doubt already noticed the uniform, and interpreted that it means I must have some skill. Which, as it happens, I do."

The other boys assembled began to mutter angrily, glancing around at each other as if to confirm that, no, they were in fact better than the others, and Sherlock couldn't mean _them_.

"Um," John scratched his nose in embarrassment, "Well. What position do you play?"

Greg emitted a noise like an ostrich being strangled, "Watson!"

"He's Harrow First Select, Greg. That means he can actually _play_!" John tried to keep his voice low, but simply ended up hissing rather loudly. He shot a guilty look at the other boys.

Sherlock smirked triumphantly, "Fly half. It is the only position I have _ever_ played, and the only position I am _willing_ to play."

John nodded. Fly half made complete sense - they were most elusive, quick thinking and tactically aware players, constantly testing for and exploiting weaknesses in the opposition's defensive line. And while they were infrequently captains ("fly 'hubris' half" was a recognised term at Cambridge, they couldn't be trusted with any position of power), during play they pretty much called the shots. Yep, John thought, Sherlock was a classic fly half.

"Alright. I'm a scrum half, so we could make sure you only really had to deal with me on the pitch. Which is a relief. After that little monologue I don't think anyone else would have you."

"Not good?" Sherlock queried.

"Bit not good." John confirmed.

John was aware his voice projected indulgence as well as irritation, and saw Greg widening his eyes in his peripheral. He ignored it, looking instead at the other players,

"Alright then! You have half an hour to impress. After that, we'll ask half of you to leave, and the rest will be able to practice with the existing team, on a trial basis. Understood?"

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock was still there. Even Greg cagily admitted that while Sherlock was an abominable human being, he was an experienced and strong fly half.

"If he can keep his trap shut, he'll do. But I'm not happy!" he warned, as they stood on the sidelines watching the struggle to gain possession of the ball continue on.

John nodded, "Got you. You must admit, psychologically he's a classic fly half."

"Mmm. And you're a classic scrum half, psychologically." murmured Greg, watching the play progress, making notes without bothering to look down at his playbook.

"Am I?"

"Of course," Greg continued taking notes, "Tough, physically and mentally. Have to be, the scum half is constantly taking on bigger, stronger, heavier players. And essentially, you clean up after everyone else. It takes patience in abundance."

John snorted, "That'll be useful, considering." His eyes tracked Sherlock keenly as the black and white jersey whipped across the field lightening fast. He smiled, suddenly,

"Oi Greg, what's abundance?"

"Eh?"

"A disco in a bakery!"

"Fuck off, Watson."

So John, still chuckling at his joke, ran onto the field. Gesturing to Sherlock that he was stepping in, he fell into step alongside the taller boy easily, matching him pace for pace, and they_ ran_.

John elected to stay clearing up cones after practice. The last thing he wanted was to be faced with a naked Sherlock in the showers.

Sherlock naked. Him naked. It could only end in humiliation and, quite possibly, John being kicked off the rugby team. _Bit not good_, John mused to himself, wryly.

He had hoped that seeing Sherlock play rugby, just like one of the lads, might quash those, 'he's just so exotic and wonderful, it's like he's not even a real boy at all!' feelings that had been swimming through his brain since he'd first seen him at matriculation.

It hadn't. If anything, Sherlock being a _real boy_ had made everything worse. Viscerally so. Something about the long limbs' fluidity, the expanse of pale skin, the look of ferocious determination on his face as he flew sidelong into the ribs of another player, knocking him flying. And working with him, that had been a revelation. Discovering that, despite all their obvious differences, when it came to strategising and decision making, they could pretty much function as one, and conquer. That was _brilliant_.

John didn't know whether to be delighted (for the team) or terrified (for himself).

When he finally wandered out of the showers, most of the players had left. Sherlock was, disturbingly, still there but fully dressed thank god, and towelling his curls.

John's stomach clenched. He cleared his throat,

"Good play out there. Not bad at all."

Sherlock favoured him with a cursory glance, taking the praise as his due.

John towelled himself dry, quickly slipping into his student uniform of jeans and a loose t-shirt. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still fussing with his hair. John couldn't resist,

"Of course, a little more respect for the actual _rules_..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, quite the wounded princess, "Rules are simply ridiculous, meaningless limitations put in place to-"

"Pub?" John wasn't quite sure why he said it, he shouldn't have done. Hadn't meant to.

But had, apparently. And now Sherlock was doing that predatory thing with his eyes again, watching John, quietly gleaming.

"You want to spend more time in proximity to me?"

"Um," John tried his very best not to make it a question, "Yes?" Damn.

"Interesting."

"Is it? I mean, we're teammates, the pub is rather ... compulsory, I think."

Sherlock didn't appear to react, but something tightened around his eyes, "Compulsory. I understand."

"No!" Without thinking, John reached out to Sherlock, laying his hand on a tensed shoulder, "Not. What I meant. Joke, ok? It was a _joke_."

Sherlock looked down at him dubiously.

"A joke?" He sniffed. "I dislike jokes. Intensely."

"You make them though, I've noticed." John countered.

"Not knowingly, I assure you."

They stood for a moment, until Sherlock said, quietly,

"Your hand is touching me an awful lot."

And John jumped back as if Sherlock's shoulder were made of white-hot metal.

"Um. So. Pub?" John picked up his rucksack, pretending to check the zips so as not to make eye contact.

"Alright. As it's compulsory."

They walked out of the changing rooms together.

"That was a joke," John muttered, hiding his smile.

"It was no such thing."

"It was! It was distinctly a joke."

"It certainly wasn't. I said it, and I am classifying it as Not A Joke. At all."

"Well, I found it funny."

"That, Mr. Watson, is because you are an idiot."

"If you say so."

"I say so."

"I know you do!"

Sherlock abruptly stopped walking, frowning at him.

"I hope you will be compensating me with alcohol for enduring your banalities."

"Of course."

"Excellent. Sweet oblivion..."

"Oh come on, we're not in drama soc!"

From behind a privet hedge spanning the rugby pitch, Daisy Bellfield ceased texting. She peered over the hedge, her eyes growing round in disbelief.

Brandishing her iPhone, she aimed, and clicked, and clicked again, blonde head bobbing above the hedge. The pictures, in and of themselves, were actually quite lovely: two boys, in an improbably orange and beautiful sunset, walking so their arms touched, heads bowed very closely together as they ... flirted? Their fingers brushing, without even noticing.

She gaped.

"Oh. Em. Gee. Email photos. CC .uk. Subject: Oh. Em. Gee. Send!"


	5. Chapter 5

**I have, after working at it for 4 chapters, fallen in love with this fic (finally!) so now it's all mapped out and I'm really confident it'll be finished in good time. Thanks for the reviews, and the favourites, so much appreciated! I do love reviews, they keep me going! **

John hadn't checked his phone in, oh, two hours. That was one of the best things about Cambridge. Yes, you could spend every waking moment with your college-mates, every meal, every second of leisure time. Or, you could hide in a small pub on a side-street and not see anyone for days, if you wanted to.

In that spirit, John had taken Sherlock to The Cross Keys, a small, old-man pub tucked away down a little lane about five minutes walk from Dunston. Most of the drinkers there were over sixty and coming down with ailments that made the place unfriendly to the lungs, if not the wallet.

Wading through the smokey interior, they sat at a corner table, half-obscured by dusk and dull lighting. For a moment, John sat simply looking at Sherlock, the dissonance of his beauty against what would inevitably come out of his mouth, the angles of his cheekbones, his chin, his slightly exposed collarbone.

_I've got you alone._

But of course John then forgot the sharp edge of that feeling, dulled into something more real - infinitely more sustainable, as Sherlock immediately rejected the beer John bought for him, pulling a sour face like a displeased cat, and demanded a glass of decent red wine.

John rolled his eyes, and went back to the bar. He plonked the glass unceremoniously down.

"There. No complaints, or else."

"Or else what, exactly?" but aside from a little wince as he took the first sip, Sherlock held his tongue.

"So," John drummed his fingers on the table, "Practice was-"

"No. No rugby 'chat'. I refuse to indulge it."

John stopped short, in equal parts amused and offended by the tart response.

"Alright ... um ... what ... how's Natsci going?"

"Tolerable." Sherlock twisted to look out of the window at the darkening skyline.

"Any interesting ... essays?"

"Not particularly."

"Made any friends that-"

"I don't _have_ friends."

John blinked. Now he really was irritated - John had been nice, had been _really_ nice and Sherlock was in fact capable of making conversation. John had experienced this firsthand. He just wasn't choosing to bother.

"Sherlock. When you agree to come to a pub, to have a drink, with another member of the human race, it's generally accepted that you'll make at least a token - a _token_ - effort to be sociable. If you can't do that then what's the point in us being here?" he gestured into the space between them.

To his credit, Sherlock did look slightly mollified,

"I ... apologise. Social convention eludes me. Sometimes. I forget." he stared firmly at the grain of the table, still.

John sighed, "It's, it's ok. We can try ... what sort of things do you like to talk about?"

Sherlock looked up, a confused sort of look shifting across his face.

"Me?"

"Yes. I'm interested to know what you would like to talk about."

For a long moment, Sherlock was silent, his eyes flicking over John's face, his eyes, his mouth, then down to his hands, and back up again. John realised, sadly, that Sherlock was completely suspicious of John's sincere attempt to actually get to know him.

John leaned forward, "Really," he said softly, "Really, really."

Sherlock's smile was pained, but real.

"I like ... science. Experiments. Theories."

John smiled back in encouragement, "What's your favourite scientific theory?"

And that was how John found himself participating in the creation of a three dimensional mock up of the Doppler Effect, using trails of salt and pepper, and multiple emptied packets of sugar.

When it was finished, the bartender was quietly fuming from behind the bar. John thanked his lucky stars he had practically kept The Cross Keys in business for the last two years or so, else they'd have been kicked out long ago. And it was worth it, Sherlock was practically beaming at him from his seat. Although, the three glasses of wine might have contributed to his good mood a little, too.

John grinned back. He was hungry for more of that smile. He wracked his brains for something he'd learned that might impress, "Ever seen a working model of the half-life of a human cell?"

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in his forehead, "Show."

John emptied the pot of toothpicks onto the table and dipped his napkin into his beer, "Order me some pork scratchings," he demanded, as he began the construction. He'd known the seminar on the half-life would come in handy one day.

It was only when Sherlock reluctantly abandoned his seat to go to the loo, half way through the model, that John thought to check his phone. He was immediately concerned when he realised he had six missed called, and thirteen text messages.

"That can't be right..." and he scrolled down.

Molly: John, I think you'd better check your email. Right bloody now.

Molly: Now John! Urgent!

Daisy Bellfield: I know something you don't know...

Greggo: WHAT? Seriously. Mate. WHAT?

Greggo: Just. What? Just, just. What? What!

Greggo: Alright, I've had a shot of sambuca. Just remember, John, once you go gay, you can never wipe that from your mind. Ever. Literally. Trust me. I know.

Greggo: Chamonix, skiing, I was sixteen, he was very feminine. I'm over it. We're not meant to be talking about me right now.

Molly: Why aren't you picking up your phone? Are you hiding? Are you with Sherlock Holmes?

Molly: PLEASE call me.

Greggo: Molly is so worried she's crying. Mate, don't leave me with the CRYINGWOMAN.

Molly: Did he kill you? Did he put you in his tiny fridge? Oh my God are you actually in his tiny fridge?

Greggo: Please ignore Molly's last text, I made her have a calming shot of sambuca. Or six.

Greggo: Look mate, if you're gay, that's alright. We can find you a _nice_ boyfriend. One who doesn't keep dead things all over the place. Not me, of course. No. On the off chance you haven't checked your email, here's the picture.

John clicked 'open', and stared.

"Ah." then he noticed it had been cc'ed to the entire college, "Ah." he said again, blinking furiously. "Ahhhhhh."

Quick as he could, he fired off a text.

John H Watson: Has it really gone to EVERYONE?

Immediately, the responses pinged back frantically to his phone.

Molly: YES. Well, not initially, but you'd be amazed how little it takes for something to be forwarded around a hundred or so people.

Greggo: YES! FUCKING EVERYONE!

John H Watson: Oh God. If it helps, it's not what it looks like.

Greggo: It looks like GAY.

Molly: It looks like romance. Ignore Greg, I can see what he's writing. Are you alright?

John H Watson: Yeah. Pub.

Greggo: With HIM?

Molly: It's sweet, you fascist. Greg's the fascist, not you John. You're the victim of fascism in this instance.

John H Watson: I'll see you both later. Thanks blokes.

"You look like somebody's killed your grandmother."

"Fuck!" John dropped the phone with a clatter, fumbling over his own limbs, as Sherlock loomed over him.

"What?" he blustered, trying to hide the faint tremour in his fingers, "Sorry, what?"

"That was my question." Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Um," John blew out a bit of air, consdering the situation, "Just. Nothing, really. Do you want to see how the half-life ends?"

And instantly, Sherlock was transfixed on the model with a singularity of focus John was sure wasn't normal. And John ignored the buzzing eminating from his phone, and talked Sherlock through the rest of the process, enjoying for those few minutes, how Sherlock hung on his every word.

"Last orders!" the barman glared at their table as he walked past, shaking his head.

John shamelessly drained his pint, "We'd better go, before he hands us a broom."

And Sherlock nodded, shouldering his big black coat on, standing.

On this walk, John was suddenly aware of how close they were walking, unnaturally close really, when he thought about it. And how Sherlock's voice was so deep it was actually hard to hear, so he was forced to lean up into the wave of sound, and the height difference meant that Sherlock leaned down, perpetually giving them the aura of being about to kiss. If you took a picture from the wrong angle, he mused.

They talked about Schrodinger's Cat, the effects of tinnitus, canned meat, the fact that John had a sister, not a brother (Sherlock looked genuinely disappointed in himself, griping that there was 'always something...'). By the time they reached H Staircase, John was genuinely sad to have to leave.

"That was fun."

Sherlock nodded vaguely, "I believe so, yes."

"You believe so?" John scratched his head.

"Mmm. Mr Watson-"

"John," John corrected.

"John."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's breath hitched, very slightly, and John smiled through the dark and said again, more deeply,

"Sherlock."

And it was so easy, in that midnight moment's laxity, to lean forward and take Sherlock's hand, cold in his, and smile up at him beatifically.

Sherlock didn't smile back. In fact, he froze, like a rabbit with myximatosis. But he didn't run. That was important.

"Good night, then. Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock slowly pulled his hand away, already off in what John now recognised as a labryinth of deep thought, ensconced in his own mind. Sherlock turned for the stairs. Paused. Turned back, an inscrutable look in his eyes,

"John." he said, once more.

And was gone up the stairs.

John walked back to his room through the deer park, whistling, and found himself, oddly, singing,

"Then farewell, for I must leave thee, do not let the parting grieve thee; but remember that the Tripos comes at last, at last, adieu, adieu, kind friends, adieu, adieu, adieu."

He ascended the darkened stairs, still singing to himself. The lights blared to life,

"Oh my dog. You're singing. In French. You ARE a poof!"

Greg had been sitting in the dark, in his pyjamas. _Not weird at all,_ John thought. Next to him, Molly was curled up asleep in her nightie. At the noise, she started awake,

"John! You're alive!" she tried to stand, and sat back down abruptly, "Oh. My mouth tastes funny. Like aniseed. Am I drunk?"

Greg had enough grace to blush, "In my defence, it was medicinal." then he looked at John.

"Right, you. Explain yourself."

"Um." john wasn't sure what to say - _we made scientific models out of condiments and didn't really hold hands. I think it might be the Sherlockian version of a date?_

He shrugged helplessly, "Just, um,"

Molly's eyes widened, her hand went to her mouth, "you love him!"

"Um, no!" John and Greg shouted in unison.

"Yes!" she was adamant, "You want to do the sex with him, I can tell. Aha!" she pointed at john's forehead, "Guilt face! You're a big gayer!"

She grinned, "This is wonderful!"

"I can assure you it isn't" muttered Greg in the background.

"I've always wanted a gay best friend!"

John turned to Greg, "You fed her too much Sambuca. She's broken."

Molly was panting slightly, eyes glazed.

Greg snorted, "She practically bathes in formaldahyde, I think she'll be fine. Molly, time for bed?" Molly nodded distractedly, and wandered off down the hall. John raised an eyebrow after her.

"Touch my arse, ever, on any pretext, and I will maim you." Greg folded his arms.

John nodded amiably, "Naturally."

"So, gay then?"

John puffed out his cheeks thoughtfully, "Um. A bit? Maybe? Not too sure. Probably still like breasts, hard not to. They're all ... soft."

"Right. But ..."

John nodded, "Yeah. But."

"Hum. So what's it like then, being all gay?"

"Dunno. Not really done much of it yet. Mostly like being straight so far."

Greg smirked, "Yeah. But can you imagine a female Sherlock Holmes? Fuck my life!"

"Jesus, no. Right. So are we alright, then?"

"Of course," Greg gripped John's shoulder, "You're Watson, I'm Lestrade. It's a given."

"Good," they began walking down the hallway, "Greg? Want to talk about Chamonix?"

"Fuck off, Watson."

They stopped outside a closed door.

"Jesus!" John said, shocked at how little he'd even _thought_ about his friends' wellbeing since Sherlock had taken hold, "How's it going with Bethan?"

Greg looked blankly back at him, "Who? Oh! I'm sure she's fine. Somewhere that isn't near me." He smiled, the easy smile of a man who was comfortable exactly in the skin he inhabited. Greg inclined his head towards the closed door, "Shall we do the right thing?"

Trying not to giggle - not quite the manly thing - John nodded.

"Molly? Love? You're in the cleaning cupboard."

A mournful little voice filtered through the keyhole, "I know. I was hoping you wouldn't notice."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thanks for all the reviews and favourites - you guys are awesome! I'm trying to respond to specific questions/queries but very busy writing and working - I'm so grateful for all comments however!**

**Warning: this chapter is a nice bit of fluff, but this is Sherlock we're talking about, so there may be some angst ahead...**

"Have you texted him yet, then?" Molly asked, flicking idly through a book.

John made a gruff noise, hiding behind his ever-growing stack of anatomy notes. They were sitting in the Starbucks in Borders. The great thing about Borders, was that as long as you bought a coffee every five hours or so, you could sit and read anything in the shop, for free. A lot of time was spent cadging off management's generosity, and not even subtly.

"That's a no, then?" she probed.

"Of course it's a no. I don't ... I don't know what I'd even say."

Molly thought for a second, "Well, yeah. It's kind of hard to make up something romantic about experimentation. No, no that came out wrong."

John smiled, cheered by Molly's ineffable good nature. "I highly doubt Sherlock is even capable of romance. And anyway, I know that as soon as anything - if anything - does happen, everyone in college will be all over it, with their judging and their commentary. It's bad enough already, even the Dean looked at me oddly this morning!"

"Hmm," Molly looked sympathetic, "It's not homophobia, you know. Certainly not from the _Dean_, nudge nudge. It's ... Sherlophobia. They just think he's freakish. And you're soo ... Watsony, which is effectively a synonym for 'lovely'. From the outside, it makes very little sense."

John rolled his eyes, "I don't think everyone seeing the pictures changes much, to be honest. I'm surprised how little I care, though I imagine Daisy is enjoying the image of me bemoaning my lose reputation, or something."

Greg looked up from his magazine, "Might not have been her who started it," he ventured, but was cowed by irritated looks from both John and Molly.

She threw down the book in her hand and picked up another, "Well, at least the photos give you an impetus to follow up. I mean, you and he will have to talk about them, yes? Ah, what about this one, this one looks good - _The Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway Guide to Love."_

She flicked through it, "Only by jumping into the unknown can you see what treasures lie therein. Feel the fear, and do it anyway, in love." Her face screwed up, "No, that's horrific."

"It might not even be his number," John pointed out.

Molly pulled a face, "You spent all evening in the pub, just you two. Then you went all handsy, if only briefly. And in the morning an anonymous mobile number magically appears in your pigeonhole? Even you're not _quite_ that British."

John sighed, "I'm never going to text, am I?"

Greg had been suspiciously quiet for a while, occasionally sniffing - he had a bad cold and refused to take anything because 'vitamins are for girls - but otherwise relatively obedient. But now, he piped up.

"Actually mate, you texted him about ten minutes ago." He didn't look up from his copy of FHM.

John could feel the blood rushing from his extremities to his heart, and his stomach flip flopped madly, "What...?"

"In case you'd forgotten, you're John Watson. Rugby Captain? 'Three Continents' Watson, star of every rugby tour, bedder of nubile ladies, eats bacon by the bucketload, takes no shit, throws a brilliant right hook? I refuse to sit and listen to you whimper about sending a fucking text."

"So, you..."

"Sent it for you." Greg leaned back smugly.

"What did it _say_?" John cried, grabbing for the phone, still on the table where he thought he'd safely placed it. But before he could look through his sent items, he was distracted by the 'ping' of a new message.

"Oh God."

He handed the phone to Molly, who squinted at the tiny writing, "Can't read it. You read it. Not out loud! Give me the gist."

Greg groaned, "I am surrounded by women. This is how it starts - first the am dram, then you'll be dressing in women's clothing 'just for fun', then-"

"Yes." Molly interrupted.

"Eh?"

"That's, um, the gist."

John grabbed the phone back, "For fuck's ... oh. Oh, alright." his frown smoothed as he read the text.

"Well. He's asked if I want to go for dinner. Tonight. Oh. Wow. I think I'm officially gay. Is there some sort of charter I have to sign?"

Greg sighed, very much the martyr, "I fell on my sword for you, never forget that." and he went back to reading about Kelly Brook's tits.

It was hours later, when John was lying in bed, still grinning absurdly, that he thought to look at Greg's text:

_Hello Sherlock. This is John. Have you seen the photos of us being rather gay? I think we should discuss this further, over dinner. While being gay is not something I've done before, it looks a laugh in Queer as Folk, and I hear that lubrication has come on in leaps and bounds since the 90's. John._

John rubbed his eyes, "Oh God. That's so humiliating. So, so ... bad."

...

_This is awkward_

John thought, as they sat in Clowns, looking across the table at each other.

It had been from the beginning, muttered "Hi's" and "How are you's" and Sherlock's refusal to make anything resembling eye contact, or speak polysyllabically. Even after John reassured him - twice - that the text had been from Greg, Sherlock insisted on being abominably rude to the waiter, calling John 'Watson' in imperious tones, and commenting on how slowly everyone's brains worked, bar his (of course).

_Being gay is horrible, so far. I'll have to tell Greg._

Sherlock had noticed that every conversation with Sherlock endured ten minutes or so of awkwardness before Sherlock forgot that John wasSomeone Elseand let him in.

_But this is a date. There are different parameters. If he can't do this, I have to know, now._

He cleared his throat. It was a complete write-off. May as well go out with a bang rather than a whimper, say something terrible. It was a tactic John had used many times before to end bad dates.

"It's odd, I've never noticed before" he said, conversationally, "how the clowns hanging from the ceiling look like they've actually been, you know, hung. Lots of tiny little murders."

Sherlock's fork stilled, no longer shredding his lasagne. Slowly, very slowly, he met John's eyes. And, very tentatively, he smiled.

"I thought exactly that."

John's not sure why, but all of a moment he was gazing up at a clown, and pointing, saying, "Done for pickpocketing."

Sherlock caught on immediately, pointing at two identically dresses clowns in the corner, "Incest."

John winced, "Nasty. Alright - tying up an old granny, dumping her into a car boot and ...running her into a freezing river. For her pearls.

"Hmm," Sherlock looked round, considering, before choosing another clown to target, "pushing a live moose from a moving aeroplane." he smirked in challenge.

"Still a crime in Alaska," John agreed, loving the surprised look on Sherlock's face, "That's right, Holmes, you're not the only one with facts."

John's not sure what his face looks like, precisely, at that point, but it must be funny because Sherlock's mouth is twitching again, trying to hold in a smile, and he's making a small sound that just might be a laugh.

"We can't giggle," gasped John, "It's a crime scene!"

And, somehow, John had broken Sherlock's barbed wire fence, and he's laughing, mouth open revealing a pink, pink tongue, column of his throat exposed as he throws back his head. And it's easy, brilliantly easy like the rugby pitch when one passes the ball without looking and the other swerves to catch it - without looking - and it's genius.

This was how they continued, exchanging arcane facts, terrifying the waiter (accidentally on Sherlock's part, with increasing glee on John's), leaning closer and closer over the table as their conversation wound around them, binding them together in the joy of having found something they could actually have this conversation _with_.

Over rice cake, John said lazily, "In Pine Island, Minnesota, it's illegal not to tip your hat when you pass a cow."

Sherlock considered this, "The Minnesota dairy industry supplies a lot of jobs, perhaps-"

"Sherlock." John felt effervescent, limbs elastic, leaning back in his chair. He dropped his fork with a clatter.

"John..." Sherlock had rolled up his sleeves, and John watched the corded tendons and muscles move as he attempted to make an origami something-or-other out of paper.

Sherlock huffed in frustration, dissatisfied, "This looks nothing like nothing like a duck-billed platypus." He cast the paper aside.

"Even God barely made a duck-billed platypus look like, well, anything normal," he shifted in his seat, "Subject change - favourite word, go."

He'd found that the best way to keep Sherlock occupied was to change subjects quickly, announce that he was doing so, and demand input into the conversation immediately, leaving no time for Sherlock to get bored, or distracted.

Sherlock blinked, "latitudinarian."

"Ironically," John supplied.

Sherlock pursed his lips, "When does this 'banter' that you speak of simply become depredation of my character?"

And it must have been a joke, because he looked quite pink and pleased when John laughs.

Sherlock insisted on paying, and on holding the door open when they leave, and willingly laughed with him, but never touched him, not once.

They walked home, like the last time, Sherlock balancing on King's College wall. John admired the way the light bounced off the old stones and shone about Sherlock's curls in a messy halo, framing his lengthy body in a soft gold wash.

Sherlock didn't look at him, gazing up into the indigo swirl of the sky, but somewhere on the walk began a soft, low monologue,

"Mycroft used to pull my hair, when I was younger ... always daddy's favourite but that's alright because he's dead now, and I was mummy's and she's still alive so I suppose I win, I like to dissect things, dissect the world, look inside it, understand." He stopped, abruptly, still wouldn't look down at John.

"I'd dissect you, if I could tie you down for long enough."

And John couldn't lie, he was a little freaked out by that statement.

"Can't lie, mate, I'm a little freaked out by that statement."

Sherlock finally looked down at him, his face blank, careful, "Perhaps you should go home."

But John shook his head firmly, "No thanks. I think I'd rather stay, as it happens." And he moved closer, touching Sherlock's leg, and then sort of awkwardly hugging Sherlock's knees, "I'm staying."

At his touch, Sherlock stiffened, standing there like a man paralysed by the crawl of a poisonous spider on his skin. John felt the first tendrils of doubt start to creep around his heart, for the first time since the beginning of the evening. But then, he felt Sherlock's slim hand, feather-light, wary, resting on his hair, fragile has a hummingbird.

...

A while later, having inelegantly extracted themselves from, well, each other, they were standing outside Staircase H, and John joked,

"You wouldn't _really_ dissect me, would you?"

Sherlock made a noise low in his throat, "Are you alive, or dead, in this situation?"

John swallowed, "you're actually very scary."

"I feel you've had fair warning," Sherlock retorted. "You can still go, you know. I'm used to being alone, in fact I very much like it. Until now I've considered myself married to my work. I find it, generally, difficult to tolerate others."

"And me?"

"I find you difficult to tolerate too," said Sherlock.

"Um." John was surprised at how disappointed he felt, how cheated. "Oh."

Sherlock huffed in impatience, "That was a _joke_. Wasn't it?"

And sudden as that, it was alright, John was giggling again, "Not really," he wiped his eyes of the little sting that had somehow pricked up.

When he looked back all he could see was the back of Sherlock's coat as he took the stairs two at a time, and heard him grousing to himself, "I don't understand. The website said that untruths were funny. Funny!"

John turned away, still smiling, and risked a brisk walk across the forbidden grass in the middle of the Great Court. Safely on the other side, he fished his phone out of his pocket and sent a text.

John H Watson: See you for breakfast?

Sherlock Holmes: Might be dangerous. SH.

John H Watson: Good.

Sherlock Holmes: I would only dissect you if you were already dead. SH.

Sherlock Holmes: Addendum: I wouldn't kill you myself, to achieve said death, before you ask. SH.

John H Watson: I wasn't going to ask. But useful to know that I should have done.

Sherlock Holmes: See you for breakfast. SH.

John H Watson: Am _I_ breakfast?

Sherlock Holmes: You're learning. SH.

John H Watson: JOKE!

Sherlock Holmes: I know. Google told me. SH.

John H Watson: Good Night.

Sherlock Holmes: Humour is impossible. I have never seen a chicken even _attempt _to cross a road. Good Night. SH.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry this took a while! Next chapter up soon, angst lies therein.**

For the first couple of weeks, both Sherlock and John made a real effort with each other, although at times Sherlock's effort seemed to extend only to not to screaming, "Why do you allow yourself to be so pedestrian!" in John's face. And on one occasion, not even that.

It was the beginning of what John would, much later, refer to as their "halcyon days together", and laugh dryly.

On occasion, John wondered why he put up with it: the gossip, whispers, friends who distanced themselves, suddenly engrossed in other things. And on top of all that, running about with a belligerent Fresher who made ridiculous jokes, kept dead things everywhere and had no interest in shagging.

But then, of course, he'd spend an evening with Sherlock, and the weight of his adoration for the boy would collapse in on him like a tidal wave, any doubts washed away in its tide, like flotsam.

John was nothing if not hopeful, and he began to believe that despite every warning he had had, from Greg and Molly, from Daisy (more predictions of doom than concerned warnings from that corner, really), from random members of college who somehow seemed to believe it was any of their business, from Sherlock himself - that Sherlock could, very slowly, be capable of conducting a healthy relationship.

...

It was 5pm, Thursday, and the sun had already set. John peered into the gloom of the library, searching for the now-familiar scruff of dark curls. He hadn't seen Sherlock all day: not at breakfast, or dinner. No sound of the violin wailing from H Staircase in the middle of the afternoon, no grumpy texts complaining about birds tweeting 'like drills' outside, or the fact that his textbooks were 'littered with syntactical errors'.

Not that John was worried, no, he wasn't. He was just ... used to Sherlock's routines, and slightly perturbed, he found, at the lack of them punctuating his day. Thus, he found himself overcoming his distaste for public revision, and venturing into the college library.

Every room (and there were many) was packed to the gills with quietly panicking students. They were clustered around the large central tables, hunched over the computers, ensconced in little private cubby holes lit by single lamps. Some had even set up camp on the floors, hiding chocolate bars and bottles of lucozade from the patrolling librarians.

John picked his way through the huddled masses, whispering an occasional "hello, mate" to a familiar, haunted face. After five minutes of trudging through the stacks he found Sherlock had crammed his long limbs into a booth and surrounded himself with towers of books. He was muttering manically under his breath as he dog-eared the page of what looked like a genuinely antique book with one hand, and highlighted a printed page with the other.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, as an opener.

Sherlock looked up almost guiltily before sniping, "Reading. Obviously."

"Mmm, but ... is that _literature_?"

Sherlock shrugged in defence, "I am ... expanding my horizons."

John laughed, "You like your horizons exactly where they are."

"Yes, I do," Sherlock replied, speaking slowly, "but it occurs to me that you ... might not."

Not sure of how to respond to this - he knew Sherlock would react with horror to being launched upon and thoroughly kissed - John sat down on the floor next to Sherlock's desk.

"Read to me, then," he demanded, keeping his voice soft. And after a short pause, Sherlock did, clearing his throat:

"While the sea destroys its continual forms, collapses its turrets of wildness and whiteness, because in the weft of those unseen garments of headlong water, and perpetual sand, we bear the sole, relentless tenderness..."

He trailed off miserably, "I have absolutely no idea what he means."

John pretended not to understand, because Sherlock was _trying_, trying so hard, and gently reached up to pull the book away, brushing his fingers against Sherlock's. He closed it and set it aside. "It's Neruda. Nobody knows what he means."

They sat like that for a long while, and eventually Sherlock stopped brooding in the general direction of the wall, and slid the book of poetry to the bottom of a pile of books, reverting to his textbook, A Biology of Cells.

John rested his head against the edge of the desk, head crooked to one side, deliberately staring at Sherlock's face. He was resolutely ignored.

John started humming. Immediately Sherlock's head swivelled round as he shot him a dark glare.

"Can I assist you with something, Mr. Watson, or may I assume that my irritation at your presence is, in fact, the end goal?"

"Hmm." John hummed ambiguously, unable to slide the smile from his face, "What're you reading about?" he asked.

"What am I _attempting_ to read," huffed Sherlock, but the frown carved into his forehead relaxed a little. "I'm preparing an essay on genetic analysis in diploid and haploid organisms."

John nodded, "We covered that in first year, too, though probably not in as much depth. It's pretty interesting." He kneeled up to look on the desk, "Show me?"

Without waiting for an answer, John levered himself up and shoved himself onto the end of the little bench, so they were sharing, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

"John..."

John licked his lips nervously. He now knew that that lack of emotion in Sherlock's voice meant that a great deal of emotion was most likely being concealed. Still, John firmly believed (and this had somehow become core to his general belief system) that if Sherlock was offering to spend time with him, it would be a sin not to take advantage.

John ignored the heat gathering at the joined parts of their bodies, focusing instead on the open book in front of them. He was acutely aware of the shallow breathing of the other boy, of the fact that he was absolutely rigid, had frozen in exactly the position he had held when John sat down, mouth half open, almost panting

"Sherlock? Come on, I want to ... learn." he grinned shamelessly.

Sherlock let out a slow, shaky breath, "Very well," His voice tight, controlled, like a dog straining on a leash, ready to run away yelping.

"So. The first thing you should know is that the end goal of this initial research is to be able to understand recombinant DNA technology, and thus cell biology, and thus the genetic basis of disease. Also, it's essential when looking at uncontrolled cell growth and division."

John nodded, "Cancers."

"Exactly. Cancers are the result of the deregulation of cell components. Or a breakdown of cell cycle checkpoints, where phase processes are incomplete or completed incorrectly, or DNA damage is allowed to remain ... John? John!"

Back to earth with a jolt, John realised he had been staring intently at Sherlock's cupids bow. He forced his eyes up to meet Sherlock's,

"Lovely. Um, what?"

Sherlock shook his head in disgust, "You may well ask. Go back to the pub where you clearly belong, Neanderthal."

And John just smiled, right up at Sherlock, a smile he knew was lovely because it was huge, and his eyes crinkled blue and sable and pink around the edges, all baby colours. Sherlock stared back, wide-eyed.

Sherlock looked away, and John became aware that he was trying to press his skinny frame into the wall, as far away from John as physically possible. The look in his eyes wasn't arousal, it was panic.

"Oh, God. Right then!" John scrambled up, acknowledging the sudden cold at his side, and the fact that the extra heartbeat - the one he hadn't noticed appear but was now abjectly sad to notice leaving - had disappeared. _God, I'm a wanker. Beer. Lots of fucking beer._

"Coming to the bar tonight?" What? Don't invite him to the bloody - you're ridiculous.

Sherlock swallowed, his body language nothing but statuesque composure, eyes still shuttered, his chest still fluttering up and down with tiny, hyperventilating breaths.

"Mr. Watson if I wanted to spend an evening being subjected to trite - to trite ... to trite conversations about absolutely nothing, I'd join a knitting circle." He turned back to his books, presenting John with a stern profile.

And John, hangdog, shameful, turned and left him to it.

...

From that day on, John became painfully aware that they were not making progress, not really. Sherlock was happy to walk so close to John they practically merged into one siamese boy. Happy to hold his hand, on occasion, if John's hand was the right temperature (he preferred it cool, but not cold, and very dry). He didn't mind John touching him, lightly, on the shoulder or high on his back, or even his head. But if John accidentally brushed his neck, or anything below the waist, even by accident, he reacted like a scalded child, and would avoid John for hours.

_I don't understand..._

John sat up in bed, ostensibly reading over his anatomy notes for the thousandth time though he knew them by heart. They'd never kissed, never even come close, really. Had never shared a bed even platonically. He really didn't understand. He'd been taking it out on Sherlock, too, he knew, snapping at him almost constantly. Mocking him in public. Christ.

And then, that evening, a flurry of increasingly abusive, barbed comments back and forth in which John accused Sherlock of being frigid and robotic, and Sherlock accused John of being petty and ridiculous and needy.

Which had culminated in John completely, utterly forgetting himself, taking Sherlock brutally by the shoulders, shaking him like a rag doll.

And Sherlock had merely let him. Then he stepped away, shaking finely, but very upright, very proud, looking not at John but at the abyss between them. And after a moment, he turned, and strode off in the other direction. Not a word. Nowhere to be found, phone off.

Now John was worried, bloody guilty, and had already drunk three cans of Red Stripe.

"Fuck this." He texted Molly and Greg.

John H Watson: I need to get fucked.

Greggo: Anally?

John H Watson: Alcoholically.

Molly: Usually I disapprove of alcohol use for therapeutic reasons. But in this case ...

John H Watson: That bad?

Molly: Honestly? Worse.

Greggo: bar, stat.

John H Watson: Stat? Alright, George Clooney...

They met in the college bar, all in their pyjamas. The barman gave them a weary look. He'd been at Dunston for five years, and had seen it all and then some, in his time.

"What will you have?"

Molly had a sensible sort of a shandy. Greg had a beer. John went all out and knocked back a jaegerbomb before ordering a large snakebite.

The barman shook his head, "Not difficult to guess which of you it is, then," he murmured, before returning to his spot by the radio.

"So," Greg intoned, settling into their usual booth, "He won't fuck you."

John shook his head. "He won't even kiss me," he moaned, resting his head on the table, "And I ... I ... I'm starting to be cruel."

"Maybe he's scared of your huge, massive, straining p-"

"Greg!" Molly said sharply. She looked at John and continued, infinitely more gently, "John, I've been watching Sherlock for a while and ... I think you need to be more careful with him, he's ... not quite right.

John huffed, "Of course he isn't! He's odd, I know this!"

"No, really. He doesn't understand social nuances or emotion, not the way you or I or, well, debatably, the way Greg does."

John swallowed, "Are you saying he's aspergic, or something?"

"Not necessarily," Molly shook her head slowly, "He's definitely further along the spectrum than most. As long as you can handle it, it probably doesn't matter. The point, really is -" she stopped, thinking, "Have you read The Atrocity Exhibition?" she asked.

John shook his head, no.

"It's J.G. Ballard, and at one point he says something like, 'Sex is now a conceptual act, it's probably only in terms of the perversions that we can make contact with each other at all.' I don't think Sherlock has ever even been kissed. He's only eighteen and, you know, Sherlock."

She shrugged,

"In that context, what Ballard says could apply - to Sherlock sex and love are just concepts, acts of perversion, weilded by others like weapons."

John glowered at her, "You're irritating. Because you might be right." He turned to Greg, "Anything to add, Dumber?"

Greg smirked, "Just don't let him see you pissed, it's incredibly unattractive. Come on, bed!"

Between them they deposited John outside his room, before traipsing off, muttering about gayers and how much easier it was just being a breeder.

John tried to unlock his room three times before realising it was, in fact, already unlocked. Odd. He stumbled inside.

"Oh." It comes out as a sort of soft whimper. Sherlock. Was asleep, snoring lightly, in his bed.

"Hogging the duvet."

John sat on the edge of the bed, taking the opportunity to stroke his hair without the sense that Sherlock was constantly fighting not to bite his fingers in retaliation. His drunkedness was slowly seeping away from him in the darkness.

He let out a deep breath and shook a protruding shoulder gently, "Sherlock?"

The duvet rustled, and gradually John was aware of one of Sherlock's eyes gleaming up at him in the dim light, the other obscured by sheets. It had a dark shadow underneath it, which made John's eyes prick with guilty tears. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, not venturing too close.

"John."

"I'm so sorry." John muttered, all on at outward breath, "So, so sorry," he was mortified to feel a tear start to role down his cheekbone, "I hurt you. I hurt you, and I didn't mean to, I just - just - so sorry! I just want you."

"That was ineloquent," Sherlock commented dryly, his face a study in amusement. Despite his tears, John was pleased to see Sherlock had rediscovered his equanimity.

He tried a watery smile, "Of course. I'm rather drunk you see, and-"

"Yes, it's obvious. But. But, I think I gleaned from your insane mumblings to be able to safely say that ... the feeling is mutual."

Sherlock's cheeks were very slightly pink, John could see. He couldn't fathom how much those words would have cost Sherlock, he knew, or what Sherlock had had to set aside to say them.

So he merely nodded gratefully, kneading the duvet in his hands.

"Are we, um. Going out, or something? Because people are talking, about ... this."

Sherlock's mouth twisted.

"Why do you care what they think?"

"I have to _live_ with them, I care."

Sherlock shook his head, "And that is what keeps you from everything you could be. You play at being an everyman, genial, approachable. When really, I think you could quite comfortably shoot a man and go to supper afterwards."

John started, "How, how can you - where did you even-"

"You're not like them at all, John, you're like-"

"I don't _want_ to be like you!" John retorted.

Sherlock froze, and John tried his best to regulate his breathing.

"Sorry. I don't, I don't want to be like you," he tilted his head at Sherlock, imploring. "I do, though, want to be _with_ you."

Sherlock nodded, still a little wary, "Acceptable."

John's answering smile, or whatever he saw in John's eyes, clearly unnerved him, and he literally seemed to recede into the bedclothes, "Don't expect too much from me, John."

John sighed, "Right, let's have a discussion, shall we?"

He toed off his shoes and with a questioning gesture towards the bed - answered by a stiff nod from Sherlock - slid fully clothed under the duvet. He turned, resting his head in the crook of his arm, to look at the pale face.

"Now, Sherlock, it's fine." John felt even more ashamed at the sight of Sherlock looking back at him: skinny, sleepless, vulnerable.

"No," Sherlock said, "It clearly isn't fine. For you." He paused, took a breath, "I - I don't know how to want ... that. But. I do _want_ to want it."

And John understood, a bit, sort of. Remembered the first time he adored someone, from afar, and felt tied to his own boundaries, and preconceptions about what a relationship should look like.

He placed a palm as gently as he could against Sherlock's chest, just over his heart. Imagined the ventricles straining with the stress of the moment.

"If it helps, they say that sex," John winced at Sherlock's sour look in reaction to the word, "Is different, when you love the person." Then he chuckled grimly, "Not that I would know."

Sherlock looked up from staring at John's hand on his chest, "You've never had intercourse with somebody that you've loved?"

John shook his head, "Not good?"

"A bit not good," and Sherlock, miraculously, placed a cool hand on John's own warm chest, "I find it sad. A waste. I'd have thought it would only be worth it if you love someone."

"Sherlock Holmes," John was impressed, "I think you're probably right."

They shared a small smile and John sensed that whatever had been close to breaking, had strengthened itself again, the pillars of Dagon still stood. Sherlock sighed softly.

"Um," John ventured, "You said you want ... to want it?" His mouth was dry, and he licked his lips to ease the tightness.

Sherlock watched every movement of his tongue, as if watching a car crash in slow motion, horrified but transfixed.

And before John even understood what was happening or had time to brace himself, he had an entire lap full of Sherlock and all his arms, and his legs, flailing, and his mouth was plastered against Sherlock's cool lips, hard.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, immediately regretting it but unable to keep quiet as Sherlock's teeth clashed painfully against his own.

Sherlock pulled away in an instant, mortified in the face of John's discomfort, but hiding it well behind his trusted mask of indifference, "I apologise, John," he was breathing hard, "that was ill-conceived."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John tried to keep his voice as neutral as possible.

Sherlock sighed mutinously, looking into the distance, "Apparently, I have absolutely no idea."

"Oh Sherlock," John whispered, frustrated and fond. He moved his hands to frame Sherlock's face, the skin dry and soft beneath them, and turn it towards his own, "Hello Sherlock Holmes," and he leaned up fractionally, clasping his fingers around Sherlock's neck, and leaned in, slowly, brushing his lips against Sherlock's.

Still a little awkward because, well, Sherlock. And how could he ever expect him to melt into his arms like a Mills and Boon heroine?

But oh, the closeness of him, and the pulse beneath the thin skin on his lip, the brush of his curls on John's forehead. It was wonderful. He could _smell _Sherlock, cut grass (rugby pitch), the unmistakable old/warm smell of library books they all eventually became intimate with, something slightly chemical and tart. And Sherlock's hand were hovering, patting like wings along his sides and back, and his eyes open wide, two lapis stones, staring at John with terrified interest.

And when John began to move back, Sherlock struck forward again with the speed of an adder, and pressed his lips against John's with a sigh. For a few short, endless seconds, their breath coming loud and hoarse, When they pulled away, John studied Sherlock in the almost-blackness, aware he too was being observed quite thoroughly.

"Sleep?" he ventured. He felt Sherlock nod, could just about make out a relieved expression on his face,

"Yes."

As John drifted off, he felt his lips begin to bruise, tender, ever so slightly, from the force of that first kiss.

Sleep stole in, velveteen and warm, and in the boundless moment between wakefulness and sleep, John smiled gratefully.


	8. Chapter 8

**Here is the new chapter :) WARNINGS: much darker than previous chapters, as well as that, there's drug taking.**

Kissing had soon become part of their reportoire. Not commonplace enough that John's heart stopped didn't stutter every time Sherlock's lips touched his, but accepted. John existed in a state of suspension of disbelief, knowing he'd fallen hard, obsessively so, and suspecting he was walking a gusty cliff-edge.

For the most part their physical relationship was childlish, as dictated by Sherlock's unwillingness. But, when Sherlock was boneless with exhaustion, or drunk at three in the morning - quite out of his own head - John discovered he became a _show stopper_. Without his brain _on_, it seemed, Sherlock was able to forget himself and simply be _physical_. John began to live for those forgetful moments, allowing Sherlock to work himself to the bone in the library and the lab and, when he managed to drag him to the bar or pub, making sure his glass was always full.

Molly felt very strongly about the immorality of the second method in particular, and made it quite obvious,

"You're one step away from abusing him, do you realise that, John? How can you think this is in any way alright!"

John scowled, "He wants to do it - he wants to! He just can't, when his brain is switched on, he just, he, we're not having sex you know, it's just-"

"The point," Molly jabbed a sharp finger into John's chest, "of _consent _is that your brain _is _switched on, you dolt."

John took her point, really he did, and he did sometimes feeled ashamed of himself, realising how selfish he was being. But Sherlock was always his usual self in the morning, and always wanted to be with John still.

And really, what small price to pay, John thought to himself, to have Sherlock luxuriating against him in bed, all tongue and hands and grand expanses of skin sliding against his own.

...

He was in one of his, 'everything regarding Sherlock is moving along just swimmingly, thank you' moods when Greg approached him in the buttery. It was 6pm and just going dark, outside, the light of the candles casting everyone's faces in shifting light.

"Alright, John."

John looked at him suspiciously as he sat, "What?"

Greg snorted, "You sound more and more like your wife every day mate."

Shaking his head, John gave him a small smile. Greg was getting more and more comfortable with the idea of his best mate shagging another bloke, even one as odd as Sherlock. Particularly as Sherlock continued to prop up the rugby team.

"Ready for the match tomorrow?" Greg asked, stuffing a couple of slices of ham into a roll.

"Yep, definitely. Feeling on top form actually."

"Good. And Sherlock?"

John grinned, "Out for blood. I think he's been cooped up with vector algebra for too long."

"Brilliant," Greg was wolfing his roll down in great big bites, "I'm throwing a party after the match, last minute thing. My room, Molly's, yours, the hallway."

"Um, when did I volunteer my room?" John queried.

Greg waggled his eyebrows, "I distinctly remember having the conversation, don't you?"

John rolles his eyes, "Fine, fine. And no, before you ask, I don't want to come to the bar. Fuck off."

They left the buttery together, Greg in the direction of the college bar and John in the direction of library (both destinations were within a two hundred metre radius of the buttery - Dunston didn't want anyone wandering too far away from their books, no matter how starving or inebriated). John, as was now his routine, moved through the dim stacks towards the desk where Sherlock had set up semi-permanent camp. There he was, bent over some horrid looking mathematical problems.

John slid onto the bench next to Sherlock, "Still vector algebra?"

"No," Sherlock muttered, "probability theory," his hand moved across the page at lightening speed, making unintelligible notes.

"Isn't that Route B stuff?" John pulled the book towards him confirming that yes, Sherlock had deliberately chosen the harder course, despite it leading to exactly the same exam paper.

Sherlock sighed, "Are you going to allow me to continue working, or shall I just give up now?"

"Come to my room."

A pause, "I'm in the middle of-"

"We can talk about anything you want..." John coaxed.

"Oh," Sherlock rubbed his eyes like a small child, exhausted, "alright. Since you insist."

Lying in bed wearing only their boxers, John allowed Sherlock to talk about the measurements of materials properties at cryogenic temperatures, and the new electron microscope his Director of Studies had managed to book him time on.

Eventually, Sherlock seemed to have run out of steam and John murmured, "Greg's having a party after the match tomorrow."

"If we win?"

"No, um, either way I think."

Sherlock frowned, evidently confused, "What's the point in a party if we lose? There will be nothing to celebrate."

"In which case, the party would be to drow our sorrows."

"Ah," said Sherlock, still slightly nonplussed, "I see."

"Will you come?"

"Will you be there?"

"Of course!"

Sherlock nodded decisively, "Then one supposes I will also be there," he yawned widely, "I think I'll sleep now. Good night." And he gave John a prefunctionary kiss on the lips before curling in on himself, almost foetally, and falling instantaneously to sleep.

John watched him for a while, threading individual curls of Sherlock's soft hair through his fingers, before finally droppng off himself.

...

The next day, Dunston's First XV went to war. They were playing against Magdalene College. Magdalene, while not quite at the top of the league like Jesus or Trinity, were definitely up there with some of the best, and beating them would be an excellent start to the season.

John whistled as they took in the sight of their opponents, "God they're big lads."

Lawrence, a prop, stood next to him, grimacing, "Yeah. Please don't get squashed, we don't have anyone to replace you."

Oh dear, thought John, oh dear indeed.

He felt rather than saw Greg appear on his other side, reassuringly mammoth in his kit, mouthguard already in. Greg clapped him on the back.

John nodded, and trotted onto the field. Where was Sherlock?

Ah, there he was. No longer distinct in his black and white stripes, finally in Dunston's mellow blue, he cut an interesting figure on the pitch. Not big enough to be a true rugby player but tall and obviously lean, he had that ominous look about him that implied he wouldn't be on the pitch if he didn't have something dangerous about him.

"Scrum!" shouted Greg. John felt Sherlock's eyes on him. He turned, met them briefly. Sherlock smirked wickedly. Out for blood, definitely.

The whistle blew. The carnage began.

...

Eventually, the final whistle sounded, and all the players immediately stopped running, breathing heavily.

"Thank God for that," John whispered, bent over, trying to catch a breath. He could feel blood dripping steadily from his nose, and he was sure something in his rib cage was not where it had been that morning.

"We won!" Greg bounded up to him, all limbs and grins and sparkling eyes. Somewhere far off, John could hear Molly screaming excitedly, "Dunston! Dunston!" The chant rose up in the stands, like a hymn.

John swayed. Very happy indeed. And quite possibly concussed.

And then, there was Sherlock without a mark on him, not even that muddy, really. He looked down at John curiously,

"What happened to your nose?"

John glared back, "Have a guess."

But he couldn't be too irritated, much of their win had been to do with Sherlock's performance - previously fast, today he had been lightening. Grim and tireless and willing to crunch the opposition's bone under his own body, too. Fucking scary.

_Fucking gorgeous._

So very different from quiet, nervous Sherlock (so unlike the testy, brilliant Sherlock in the library) or the drunk exhausted Sherlock who moved against him like a snake, sinuous, slow, but essentially not there. This Sherlock was vital, visceral, alive.

John moved closer to Sherlock, feeling the ache in his bones, but aiming for something close to grace,

"Let's go to the party together?" he asked.

Sherlock, for once, understood what was going on, "Alright. I can meet you after showering. At the Plodge."

...

They got to the party just as it was getting into full swing, and for once John was absolutely proud as punch to be holding Sherlock's hand. Because here, after a rugby match and with the music so loud he could barely be heard, Sherlock wasn't the boy Dunston had been twittering on about for the last term, who scared everyone and refused to make friends. Here, he was the player who'd won them the match, pretty much a hero, and finally part of the gang.

Looking around Greg's efforts with the space, John was forced to admit that given the time frame, Greg's made a damn good show of it.

"It is rather ... impressive," Sherlock said quietly, running a finger along a pin-up picture of a naked woman. Every wall was plastered with them, a bona fide pornographic wallpaper. Molly's room had been turned into a gambling den, complete with a green card table and a croupier. Greg's room - the largest - had a student DJ crammed into one corner and a disco light suspended from the ceiling. Bodies writhed around inside as electro music blared away.

"What," wondered John aloud, "has he done to _my_ room?" and he grabbed Sherlock's hand to lead the way. He peered inside,

"Oh. Dear Lord."

Sherlock craned to look over John's shoulder, and blanched, "How will you get them all out?" he asked.

John just sighed deeply, "I have not got a clue."

At that very moment, Greg appeared from their kitchenette, grinning from ear to ear, a bottle of beer in each hand. He appeared to be drinking from both, and was in a brilliant mood.

"John mate, amazing! And Sherlock, my new hero!" he took in their stunned faces, "Aha, I see you've found the ball pit," he nodded proudly in the direction of what had been John's room, now thigh-deep in multi coloured plastic balls.

John felt a bit faint, actually, "Where have you put my _bed_, Greg?"

Greg blinked, "I've used it in the opium den," he stated, as if it should be entirely obvious.

"Right, of course," John shook his head, "Sorry, what? You haven't actually got _opium_?"

"Bloody hell of course not! This isn't Leeds. We do however have coke, E's, MDMA, skunk and ... those odd thingies, you know, um ..." and Greg was distracted by a willowy redhead in a pair of very short shorts as she wandered by, flushed from the exertions of the ball pit, "Excuse me, boys. I think that someone needs to see my wallpaper," he leered, sidling away.

John turned to Sherlock, "Ever taken drugs?" his voice rose hopefully.

"Certainly not," Sherlock retorted, "Drugs pollute the mind. Besides, they're for the weak."

"You're not even a little curious?" John queried.

"Not at all. You may ruin your brain stem if you wish, I won't."

John smiled, "So you're scared?"

"I am not!" came the retort, indignant, "I just-"

"It's ok, Sherlock. You're precious with yourself, you're scared you won't be able to handle it, I understand completely-"

"Reverse psychology won't work, John, I'm not an idiot."

John kept smiling benignly, and turned away towards what he assumed was the opium den, judging by the smell of skunk eminating strongly from it. When he looked back, Sherlock hadn't moved, and was shooting him a poisonous look.

He went in and sat down, "Oh," too late he saw who he was sitting next to, "Daisy, hullo."

Daisy sneered in a genteel sort of way, "Watson. Where's your pet raptor?"

John shrugged, "He's around. Smoke me up."

Daisy shot him a long look, before drawling in a faux American accent, "Sure thing, duuude." She passed him her joint, and went back to what she had been doing, cutting fine white lines of coke with her credit card, like salt drifts in the Red Sea.

Before John knew it, he'd had two lines and his blood was singing away from him, spilling around his skull. Lawrence, who he remembered looking so wholesome and clean just before the rugby game, blearily handed him a pill. MDMA. John took it, washed down with a pull on his beer.

He remembered this. Pre-Sherlock, getting completely trashed. And thinking of all the names he could for 'trashed' - trolleyed, wasted, wankered. Molly had once said that you could use any word and everyone would know what it meant. She'd demonstrated, "Paperclipped, airoplaned, armchaired, windmilled," and they'd all sniggered around their pints.

He was high as a kite when the door darkened and he looked up to see Sherlock.

"Alright?" he grinned brightly, holding out a hand, then dropped it, "Oi you're drunk! Why drunk?"

Sherlock louched across the room and sat primly next to John, "Celebratory tequilas are obligatory when one is the Man of the Match, John." and he smugly displayed a badge that read exactly that: 'Man of the Match'.

John nodded in what he hopes was a wise way, "Deservedly. So, would you like some drugs _now_?"

The brief flare of shock in Sherlock's eyes faded swiftly, replaced by a macabre sort of interest - pathalogical - as Daisy cut the pile again. She re-rolled the fifty quid note and handed it to Sherlock,

"The man of the hour, I hear?" she shot him a mocking smile.

Sherlock looked at John. John's nose stung, inside, right between his eyes, and he could taste coke bitter and medical in the back of his mouth, coating his tongue like mould. He felt light, dizzy, wanted Sherlock there with him, nebulous, in an abandoned bedroom, wanted them on the same high all the time whether it was rugby or drugs or, or _anything_.

He smiled at Sherlock, "It's only coke, Sherlock", leaned in to rest his forehead on his shoulder, glancing up imploringly, "Everyone's doing it."

John watched intently as Sherlock's lower lip trembled slightly. But he took the rolled up note, crisp, new, and stared down at the pure white line of coke. He bent down, forwards, a semi-prayer position and, in one short, clean swoop, sniffed the powder up.

Instantly Sherlock reared back, "Ah - I - John - " and John sprung up to support Sherlock, who was swaying dangerously.

"It's odd", he nodded, "Feels off the first time. You need one in the other nostril, for balance."

Sherlock shook his head, "No, it's not that. It's good. It feels. I feel - I _don't_ feel. It's wonderful. It's _amazing_."

Sherlock did a_ lot _of coke that night. He showed little interest in weed, had a passing flirtation with MDMA. The coke, however, transported and transfixed him. It made him confident, gregarious, the life of the party. The sharp, terse edges were smoother away. It also, to John's happy surprise, turned him into a flirt, possessive of John and willing to show it, biting his neck and leaving bruising marks on his wrists as he pushed him up against the pornographic wall for an open-mouthed kiss.

John loved it, wallowed in it, and let - no, encouraged - Sherlock to do more coke, and then more. He revelled in the surprised glances of the Dunstonites, the akcnowledgement in Daisy's eyes, and he in turn grabbed Sherlock by the base of his neck and drove him against a doorjamb, cruelly stroking his stomach just above his belt, letting Sherlock shudder, lost, beneath his hands.

The party thinned out as night became morning and dawned threatened the windowsill. That was when John drew Sherlock by a belt loop into Greg's room, where the mattress had been flipped from it's perch against the wall, back onto the floor. He locked the door firmly,

"Greg can sleep in his bloody ball pit," he growled against Sherlock's lips, reaching behind him to close and lock the door. He paused in the middle of the kiss, waiting for the awkward moment when Sherlock would stiffen, curl away from him, retreat within himself.

But in Sherlock's pinprick pupils there was nothing but ... John chose to call it lust. Whatever it was it _worked_, because Sherlock's jaw had softened, and his eyes were limpid and wide. He was not only kissing John back, but his hands were moving, across John's shoulders and back, clutching at his thickly muscled waist to steady himself. John could scarcely believe it.

Sherlock pulled back, smirking, his lips swollen.

"You are fucking fantastic," muttered John, already twisting his hands between them to work at Sherlock's belt buckle.

Sherlock laughed, dirty, sure, "Everything is fantastic, John," he pulled his hips back infintessimally, allowing John access to his fly, "I can see the universe and you are made of ... of pure atomic dust."

John should have wondered about that, but he was too engrossed in sliding Sherlock's trousers down over his hips, as Sherlock's hands roved restlessly over the small of his back.

John was dimly aware that without the tequila and the coke, Sherlock could have responded in any number of ways, most of which would have left John with a bloody nose. Instead, Sherlock's pale, very slim body was trembling gently, and his mouth slide open into a round wound of surprise as John finally, finally got the trousers down and began to fumble within his boxers. John was fascinated by the frown on Sherlock's face as his eyes dropped closed and he leaned forward to rest his head on John's shoulder.

Gazing up at Sherlock's flushed face, John grinned in triumph, "Oh you love me now, don't you, Sherlock? You - you do, you love me _now_."

The consequences of alcohol and drugs are many, and one of them is complete blackout. Waking the next morning, filled with ache and feeling like his blood was mud, John braced his head in his hands. The mattress was empty of Sherlock.

_What ... what? _John gazed down at himself, covered in blooming bruises and bite marks. Involuntarily, he smiled. _What else?_

Yes, yes, the memory of using Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock lying spreadeagled on the bed, allowing john to drop down on him like a bird of prey.

He remembers being cruel, bullying Sherlock's body into twisting beneath him, murmuring, "You're going to feel this for days."

Sherlock's pulse was visible, actually visible, in the artery in his neck, and jittery and fast as a hummingbird's. John was harsh with it, biting Sherlock's nect in abandon.

Their eyes meeting, Sherlock's wild and shining, John's bright slits in the night.

Nothing, then, in John's memory bank until the depressingly clear image of rolling the condom away, tying it off, and throwing on the floor, panting like a post-race greyhound. He'd then turned to Sherlock, who was already half-lost to sleep. John looked down to the floor - yes, there was the condom. He chucked it in the bin. And that was all. All he remembered.

He was too hungover to panic over the absence of Sherlock - during their time together he'd discovered that Sherlock was predictably unpredictable, and was probably off procuring larvae from somewhere, or trying to convince the kitchen staff to house yet another body part in their carefully monitored industrial freezer.

He dragged his jeans on, couldn't find his boxers, but his head felt so thick he didn't care. He walked stiffly into the hallway, stepping over bottles and other detritus.

To his surprise, Sherlock was sitting on another mattress, shoulder hunched, with a couple of Dunstonites: Daisy, Lawrence, Greg and Molly included. One of the girls, who John didn't know, was talking to Sherlock.

"I'm in first year. Are you third? I've seen you around, but we've never spoken."

And Sherlock, shaking his head dully and replied, "No, no I'm a first year. I'm eighteen."

_Fuck. _John pressed his palm against his eyes. _Eighteen._

He sat down next to Sherlock, who turned to gaze at him with a haggard, lost look. John tried to smile, but found he couldn't, settling instead for a cigarette from his jeans pocket. Sherlock surprised him for the second time that day, holding his hand out for one, too. After a moment's hesitation, John acquiesed and they smoked in tense silence, punctuated only by a quiet cough every now and again, from Sherlock. Eventually, Sherlock seemed to unfurl a little, and glanced at John,

"I have to revise tonight."

John nodded agreeably, "Of course. Me too, really."

"Yes. But let's go out afterwards."

John huffed a surprised laugh, "Haven't you had enough, Sherlock? It was pretty mental last night."

"Enough?" Sherlock cocked his head, "No. Not nearly. Not nearly enough."

And John thought, _alright he enjoyed getting wasted, and a bit high. He's at university, of course he did. Maybe I've just ... managed to calm him down a bit._ But secretly, something he wouldn't even admit to himself, John's betraying subconscious was murmuring gleefully, _got away with it - he doesn't hate me! And now, we can do it again."_

So he shrugged, grinned, and said easily, "Of course. We can do whatever you want."

It was a couple of minutes later, when Sherlock had cadged another cigarette from him and was smoking it with dedication, that John's eyes met Molly's. Later, he would realise that the sadness and betrayal and anger in _her_ look were what he had expected, and probably deserved, from Sherlock.

A look that asked, _What have you done, you stupid man? God John ... what the fuck do you think you've done?_


	9. Chapter 9

**New Chapter! I warn you, it doesn't exactly get happier ... and the chapter after this one will, hopefully, be pretty explosive. Reviews always appreciated, I thank you.**

John s'posed it was ironic that it wasn't Sherlock's reaction to that night, but Molly's, that inserted a needle of guilt into his brain. As a result, he avoided Molly as much as he could and, when forced to encounter her in the buttery or bar, couldn't look her in the eye.

More worryingly, Sherlock was avoiding _him_. They texted every now and again in a noncommittal way, but Sherlock was always busy, or out of his room, or ensconced in some project. The 'going out' Sherlock mentioned after Greg's party had never materialised, and it had been a full week. Eventually John cracked:

John Watson: Are you angry with me?

SH: Why would I be angry?

John Watson: About us, you know.

SH: Actually, I don't know. But no, I am not angry with you.

John Watson: Can we see each other, then?

SH: I'm actually extremely bust this week. My dissertation.

John Watson: I understand completely. Are you still with me, though?

SH: Of course, John.

A pause, as John buried his face in his hands, blinking back embarrassingly relieved tears. His phone emitted another cheerful little ping.

SH: I don't know how _not_ to be with you.

And that should have relieved John, too, shouldn't it? But it didn't at all, because he couldn't help but feel he had somehow broken Sherlock, made him need him too much, and that if Sherlock had a choice - or even _felt_ he had a choice - he would forget all about John and retreat into his experiments and books.

John needed to be alone, create time to think, to understand. He moved stealthily through the college, slipping through the back gates and into the fields beyond. Finally on his own, he perched on a low stone wall overlooking the river - this was where he came to think. It was a foggy day, and the weak sun did nothing to alleviate the feeling of gloom. John took a deep breath of air, tasting cut grass and clean water. Calm.

Unfortunately, Molly knew him too well, and after just five minutes or so he saw her dim figure tramping through the mist. John sighed,

"You'd make a great sniffer dog," he commented dryly.

"And you'd make a great twat. Oh wait, you've already accomplished that."

She plonked herself down onto the wall next to him, her entire body radiating anger.

"Right, you've been avoiding me - and this - long enough. Time to sort it out."

John rolled his eyes, "Oh, fuck off Jiminy Cricket!" he started to push himself off the wall to make his escape, but Molly was too quick, grabbing his arm with slim but surprisingly talon-like fingers,

"Who _are_ you?" she spat, "Because you're not John Hamish Watson, you can't be."

John suddenly felt ashamed. Of course he could see that he was acting ... badly. He hunched his shoulders against her ire.

She let go abruptly of his arm abruptly, as if it had tried to poison her, "God John, you've always been a bit blunt and blundering, but you're a good person, one of the best men I know, and I _so_ adored you. But now look at you! You're a bloody monster..."

John bit his lip, "Is that really what you think of me?"

"Well," Molly shook her head, "You've really screwed up, John. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's the truth ... if Sherlock had said something to college or god forbid the police ..."

"No!" John barked, feeling panic rise in his chest, "No, he enjoyed it, he did, he didn't say no."

"And did he say yes?"

"What- well, do you actively say yes every time _you_have sex?"

Molly grit her teeth in frustration, "The point is that he didn't know what he was saying yes or no _to_. He was out of it, completely, and you_ took advantage_."

"I barely remember it..." John muttered miserably.

"Good. You don't deserve to."

They sat in tense, muggy silence for a bit, before John turned to Molly again,

"What does Greg think?" he asked quietly.

She snorted derisively, "Greg doesn't really think, does he? Not about this sort of thing."

She warmed to her subject, "Christ - it's - I'm just so sick of the latent misogyny that surrounds this university! I know, I know Sherlock's a bloke too but it's _you_. Your alpha male assumption that because you're middle class and kick a ball about, you somehow have a _right_to sex. And what's worse is that you - _you_ John - should be so much better than that!"

John bowed his head, he didn't know what to say, "Well, clearly I'm not better than that, because when it came down to it, I just ... wasn't."

Molly looked so very disappointed with his answer, blinking back tears, her chin crumpled.

"Do you ... do you ... John," her voice cracked, "I don't think we can be friends anymore. I can barely look at you."

And with that, Molly was gone, floral skirt floating delicately behind her. John didn't try to make her stay, the magnitude of what he'd done settling on him like a dew in the mist. He sat on the low wall for an hour, staring out onto the bleak field and the black, sluggish river.

Eventually, he stirred, _Right, I need to find Sherlock._

...

Finding Sherlock was surprisingly easy, as it turned out. He simply went to H Staircase, knocked on Sherlock's door - titled 'Holmes, S' in painted script, and Sherlock was in for a change.

"Hello?" he called through the door.

"Go away."

"It's me."

A sigh, "Come in then."

John ventured into the room, his stomach tying itself in nervous knots. It was dark, Sherlock hadn't bothered to open the curtains.

Sherlock sat at his desk surrounded by papers and books, clearly in the middle of a big project. Maybe he hadn't been lying about his dissertation. There was, though, something different about him, a strange light in his eye ... and if it's possible, he was thinner than ever, and paler.

John stood awkwardly in front of Sherlock, "Um, sorry to disturb you. I ... just wanted to-"

"I can't talk now." Sherlock's tone was brusque, dismissive, "we can go out later if you want, however."

John felt a bit rattled, "You actually _want_ to go out?" he asked.

A shrug, "There's a party at Jesus."

John was aware he was open-mouthed, but couldn't help it. There was a party, which Sherlock knew about, and actually wanted to go to? When had Sherlock become part of ... that scene?

"Um. Sorry, yes! Of course. What time?"

Another shrug, "I can just meet you there."

John nodded, "Alright ... that sounds nice. I..."

He searched Sherlock's face, but the boy was already enraptured by his work again, and seemed to have completely forgotten John was there. John decided not to push it because, after all, Sherlock seemed alright, and wanted to go out with him. Progress, if anything, he thought.

He managed to quash the insistent little voice in his head which said, _Clearly there's something very wrong here, and it's all your fault. Face up to it._

...

John arrived at the party at about 9pm. It was nothing like Greg's had been, just thirty or so students drinking and smoking, with reggae playing in the background. John wandered through the rooms, trying to find Sherlock. He poked his head into the sitting room, where Greg was sitting on the sofa with a group of mutual acquaintances, sipping beer.

"Oi Greg, seen Sherlock?" John called from the door.

Greg turned, his smile for John a little less bright than it had been before, "Yeah, in the kitchen," he paused, "You alright mate?"

John smiled sadly, shrugged, "Yeah mate. See you." and he retreated from the doorway and Greg's questioning look.

True to Greg's word, Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, with Lawrence, Daisy and a couple of other students. He was at an angle to the door, so John was able to get up close and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder without being noticed.

"Hullo, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up, frowning, "Oh, John. Yes. Hello. Would you like...?" he gestured lazily at the table which, John now realised, contained a veritable pharmacy of drugs. Particularly worrying, in front of Sherlock sat the largest plastic bag of coke John had ever seen outside of a dealer's hands.

"Is that... is that all yours?" he asked, confused.

Sherlock merely tilted his head, "Economies of scale, John. In any case, there is some sharing going on."

"Sherlock, _no_."

"It's just coke, John, everyone's doing it," eyes narrowed cruelly as he parroted John's blithe words back at him.

"Yes, in moderation," John protested, horrified, "You've got - god how much is that, that could fell a horse! Coke is fun, alright, it's fun for a bit, in little bits, it's not ... it's not bloody _food_!"

Sherlock smirked, "Oh dear, John. Is it scaring you?"

"What ... no, but, I don't -" John couldn't form a complete sentence, faced with this new cold, blank Sherlock.

"Now I'm growing up. Is it?" Sherlock continued to twist the proverbial knife, "Isn't this what you wanted? A boy who would make you look good, to have fun with, to impress your _friends_?" The last word, he spat bitterly at John.

Bending his head away, Sherlock began cutting lines of coke with a worryingly expert hand. He looked up, still cutting neatly, "If that is what you wanted then I have absolutely no idea why you targeted me."

John gasped, "I didn't-"

"You saw what you wanted and you took it. Etonian. Rugby player. Of course you did. I was a fool to comply."

"So you're leaving me."

"No. Not at all. However, I am going to be married to my work for some time, and you will respect that and desist in ... _that_." he gestured towards John's crotch, effortlessly rolling a note with his free hand, "And you will let me _be_, once in a while."

With that, he snorted an entire, thick line.

That night Sherlock did more coke than John thought should be possible, and John did nothing. Because John _can_ stop, has always been able to stop, and apparently Sherlock can't. Just like he can't stop needing John, even though he no longer wants to be touched by him at all. Because of course, of course, just like Molly said ... there's something not quite right in his synapses.

_And I've just gone and exposed him to one of the most addictive substances on earth ..._

It was horrid, watching Sherlock take more and more, tempting insanity, but John didn't know how to make this Sherlock stop - this emotionless creature with flinty eyes and a barbed tongue who stared at John as if he wished he was a Medusa and could reduce him to stone. All John could do was sit close by him, lend him his warmth (because Sherlock is so very cold) and a place to rest his head when the hit became too much. The latter seemed to work, because one moment Sherlock was having an animated conversation with some faceless boy about mathematical equations, and the next, he had passed out gently in John's arms, still sitting.

John made no attempt to move him as the other partygoers left through the night, just stroked Sherlock's hair gently, murmuring sweet things into his ear. _This,_John thought to himself, _is probably the kindest thing I've done for him in a long, long time._

He cradled Sherlock for unknown hours until the boy began to stir, and looked up at him with bloodshot, suspicious eyes.

Sherlock sniffed, "Did we..." he gestured between them.

"Oh," John felt his cheeks burn with shame, "No, no. I just ... held you, I suppose."

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded, seemingly willing to accept that. Nevertheless, he pulled away, standing up gingerly.

"I have a lecture at nine," he stated, looking down at John with his new, smooth face, "I ... thank you. Goodbye."

John watched him go, so far beyond sad. Sherlock may have said he didn't know how to leave John, but he knew how to be _gone_ from him. And had done that extremely effectively.

Alone in the kitchen, John watched dawn rise proper through the window, in the muted greys and blues of an English sky. He thought of Sherlock, of his innocence and his strangeness, that Sherlock had been something special, of another world.

That he, John, had sullied him.

John was not a tearful person by nature, and he didn't cry then, sitting at the sad plastic table. But it was a real effort. He'd leave Sherlock alone for a while, he owed him that at least. Looking round the small, dim kitchen he sighed, how small a world it seemed. But then again, he thought of Sherlock: _how small a world we need_.


	10. Chapter 10

**This chapter was pretty exhausting to write. But it's done. Thank you for all your reviews, and in particular (I don't remember who said it, sorry!) the person who suggested bringing in Jim Moriarty at this point! I was soooo tempted, but don't think I can make it work given the story I had in mind. Please review, let me know your thoughts! I love reviews.**

It was three in the morning, and John was slowly, reluctantly, waking. He had only managed to find sleep having exhausted himself with revision, and didn't want to be roused so soon.

He hadn't seen Sherlock in six days, and hadn't tried to, attempting to respect what were clearly Sherlock's wishes. But it played on his mind, and left him awake nights, staring into the civilised darkness of the deer park, wondering.

John huffed in irritation, his phone had been ringing almost constantly for ten minutes, and John's attempts to ignore it were getting more and more futile. He rolled over, pulling the duvet over his head,

"Go'way..." he groaned, "s'the bloody witching hour..."

The phone kept ringing. And ringing, shrill as a harpy.

"Oh for-" John rolled over, hitting his hand against the edge of the bedside table and cursing violently. He jabbed at the phone, "What? What do you want?"

Molly's voice came thin, halting, "John? It's Sherlock ... he's in a really bad state, you need to come now."

John had never sprinted faster, on or off a rugby pitch, in his life. He kept the phone pressed to his ear, "Called an ambulance? Call an ambulance!"

"Of course! Of course, of course, John where _are_ you?"

"Deer park - I'll be two minutes! Make sure nobody does anything ridiculous."

He thundered into the Great Courtyard, almost knocking over the Porter on duty, and immediately saw where Sherlock must be, a dark, shifting stain on the ground surrounded by horrified looking students.

Even from the gate it was obvious Sherlock was having a seizure -he'd seen seizures while on shifts at the hospital. Normally, they were epileptic, but every now and again a teenager or twenty-something with no prior history would be wheeled in, usually in the early hours of the morning. It had always, without fail, been drug-related.

John felt sweat dripping down his neck as he ran. His lungs burned, screaming for air. Finally, finally reaching the small crowd, he skidded to a stop, flinging himself to his knees next to Daisy,

"Stop holding him the fuck down, that's precisely the _wrong_ thing to do! And MOVE you bloody idiot!"

Elbowing her out of the way, John tore his hoodie over his head and wadded it up into a ball, "Put this under his head, Molly. Now!"

John was vaguely aware of the faces of the other students caught in awful grimaces, some of them crying. They were as ghosts, because the only face he could focus on was Sherlock's, eyes open but unseeing, pale as milk, a cold sweat beading on his brow.

Molly's movements were jerky as she tried to keep the hoodie under Sherlock's twitching head, shock settling into her limbs, and next to her Daisy covered her mouth with her hands as began to sob, "John - I'm so sorry - so sorry I -"

John felt hysteria rise in his chest, "You did this?" he didn't look at her, his mouth set into a grim line as he tried to hold Sherlock's shaking arm still enough to take a pulse, "What did you give him? Fuck - pulse too fast - tachycardia - WHAT DID YOU GIVE HIM!"

"I didn't - he took it, it wasn't -"

John had met the limits of his patience, wheeling to face Daisy without dropping Sherlock's arm. He'd never heard himself speak like this before, didn't know he could, the shrill edge of a shattering heart tainting his words,

"Daisy tell me now! Or I swear to god and everything on earth that I will ruin. your. _life_."

Whatever was in his face or voice, it worked and Daisy's face crumpled,

"Coke, he took a lot of coke. And ket."

John swallowed thickly, "That's a_horse_ tranquiliser. Why would you, why-"

"And quite a bit of vodka," her voice shook.

"Oh good god." John breathed, suddenly ragged, "You're so stupid, so bloody stupid."

He felt his eyes well with tears as he pressed his palm against Sherlock's forehead, "hyperthermia," he muttered, "He's burning up." He sat back, at a loss, panting. Sherlock's body continued twitching helplessly, as if jerked by unseen strings, eyes wide, wide open unblinking and looking through John as if he were a pane of glass. He's lost, a boarded up house, a broken down engine.

His eyes met Molly's. She was weeping silently, a portrait of grief.

"It's alright, Molls. It's just a seizure - a seizure."

In the distance, the wailing of sirens became faintly audible, and John felt the tightness in his chest ease a little. But Molly was shaking her head, "John, I was here before - before he collapsed. He was saying he had chest pains, and that his fingers were tingling. John-"

"Shut up. No."

John couldn't think, had no recourse, the knife of panic had cut him to the core. Chest pains. Tingling fingers. John knew the symptoms. Had diagnosed them. Had watched old men die. He tried to think, tried to think but could only hear his own frantic breathing in his ears, could only feel the warm, fat tears running down his nose.

_Pull yourself together!_

The sirens grew louder. Emboldened by the noise, John pressed one hand against Sherlock's mouth, trying to see if air was flowing in and out. The tears continues to come, thick and ugly, down his face. This, the man who did not cry.

"I can't - um - Molly -" he heard his own voice as if from far, far away, papery and cracking on almost every syllable. He tried again, his throat an ache, "I think we need to start chest compressions, right now, I-"

The breath was shoved out of him as he was thrown back by a pair of strong hands, the bottle green and fluorescent yellow flashing bright as the paramedics pushed him out of the way, crowding around Sherlock's prone body.

"Thank God..."

Molly had drawn back from the scene, pulling a still-sobbing Daisy with her. She held her free arm out to John, who gratefully sank into it. They watched silently as the paramedics worked on Sherlock. One pulled open his mouth and administered an injection with a long needle, halting the seizure almost immediately. The other was pulling an oxygen mask over Sherlock's mouth and nose, his face a study in calm concentration.

The first paramedic, a small man with wiry copper hair, twisted from his kneel, "What did he take?" he asked shortly.

"Coke. Ketamine. Vodka." the medic narrowed his eyes at John,

"Quite a list. Any idea of the amounts?"

John looked at Daisy, who shrugged listlessly, tears dribbling down her cheeks, "A lot. I dunno. A lot."

The medic sighed, "Right. Blood sample, toxicology. Let's get him up to Addenbrooke's."

Almost silently, the medics rolled Sherlock onto a gurney, radiating disapproval, and lifted him into the back of the ambulance. The small ginger medic knelt down again, picking up discarded plastic gloves and his kit bag. He glanced up at them,

"Cambridge - you lot are meant to be the brightest young minds in the country. And look at what you do to yourselves." He shook his head, turning to hop into the back of the ambulance, "Alright, drive!"

...

They waited for hours in the foyer of Addenbrooke's' A&E department. Molly was hunched over, head in her hands, looking up only when a trolley wheeled squeakily by. John paced incessantly up and down the halls, as if there were something to count, as if the tiles spelt clues, or even answers.

Finally, as the sun rose pale and sick, the consultant emerged from Sherlock's room, a morose look on his already serious face. He cleared his throat,

"You're his friends?"

Molly stepped forward, "Yes. Is - is he?"

"He's stable. Under heavy sedation, for his own good, but stable. He was extremely lucky, the blood samples were ... yes. You should probably leave now, get some sleep. Only family are allowed to see patients in this condition."

"Please!"John moved to stand next to Molly, "Please - I'm his boyfriend. Dr. Stagg, isn't it? I'm a medic, rotating in ENT at the moment and I was in one of your seminar groups last-"

"Al_right_," Dr. Stagg held up a hand, "I don't want to get sued because I didn't let the _boyfriend _in. You can see him. Although, one would question how a man lets someone he loves get into that sort of state."

With a sharp look, Dr. Stagg swept away down the hall. Molly gripped John's hand as they stared after him,

"You were ... brilliant today. Helping."

John shook his head, "I wasn't ... I ... you remember I said that we needed to start chest compressions?"

Molly nodded, silent.

"I realised that he could die. Actually die. And that if he did, it would have been my fault. Really, all my fault. And I was sitting there blaming Daisy, and Sherlock, and everything and everyone, and it was all me." John scraped a hand over his face, trying to sand away his tears, and his shame.

Molly smiled sadly, "One day you'll suffer, you'll suffer a great deal John, and it will be good for you. You'll learn pain, and patience, and unconditional love, and self sacrifice, and ... it'll teach you how to love properly. Um, anyway. I'll leave you to it ... see you around sometime yeah?"

John wondered what he possibly could have said to that. So he said nothing, just gave a pathetic little wave, and watched her go.

He turned to the room where Sherlock lay, quietly pushing the door open. It was dim, wash with a green light, the bulb ensconced behind the cubicle curtains.

Sherlock was painfully still in the small hospital cot, and the loneliness of his sleeping body gave rise to a fresh threat of tears in John. He was attached to so many machines, and tubes - an IV drip, cardiac monitor, constant temperature monitoring, all feeding out readings, ticking and beating into the unknown. Sherlock was breathing without assistance, that was a relief, the long-outgrown instinct keeping him alive.

John watched Sherlock for long minutes, holding his hand, taking his pulse at the same time, not quite believing the machines. His heartbeat was sluggish, too slow.

"Please, please don't. Even as I tighten my hold, you're disappearing."

Sherlock looked like a corpse, waxen, dense with gravity. His arms, head, at unnatural angles as if dropped from a great height, twin cheekbones raising the skin like tent poles. It was agony to watch.

There was only one chair in the room, an uncomfortable wooden affair with little padding. Shuffling to it, John sunk down with a sigh, _I'll only close my eyes for a moment_. But he was completely spent, utterly exhausted. And, with the sterile heartbeats of the monitoring equipment bleeping comfortingly in his ears, he wrapped himself in the shelter of his own two arms, and drifted into the abyss.

...

John woke to the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, intently. His first, elated thought was _Sherlock_! but his eager glance revealed the boy was still in oblivion. Gingerly, John lifted stroked one of Sherlock's hands, lying pale and still on the bed.

"Good. You're awake. Now get out before I have you shot."

John started, "Um, what, sorry?"

"Get. Out."

John sat up sharply, trying to work out what was going on, "Sorry, who _are_ you?"

The man looking down on him was not just tall and large, but fat, a fact carefully concealed by an extremely well-cut pinstripe suit, offset by a pocket square. His deep-set, steel-grey eyes were predatory and pitiless, his umbrella wielded like a sword. He looked down at John's rumpled clothes and wan face with a sneer,

"You_are_ John Watson, I assume?"

John nodded dumbly.

"Well hear this, Watson. You are a canker, a sore on my Sherlock's existence. I know all about you, be sure of it, and I like nothing of what I hear. You have led him to poisonous water and allowed him to drown."

"No, please-"

"You will leave this room, and you will not see Sherlock again. If you attempt to do so, I will hurt you. Unimaginably."

Understanding dawned, as John listened to the man's polished, dangerous voice.

"You're Mycroft aren't you?" he ventured.

"I am. And you are a disease." the man's lip curled in disgust.

John breathed in deeply. From what Sherlock had told him about Mycroft, it would be wise to capitulate.

"I'm sorry. I can't - I'm just sorry. I was ridiculous, and stupid, and I was awful. Can I - could I - say goodbye?" He tried to keep the childish plea from his voice, but found he couldn't, found himself begging.

"I think not."

Mycroft took a step forward, just one, and John realised that if he didn't leave, right then, he might find himself almost as broken as Sherlock. He gathered up his bag and hoodie quickly, and stood.

"I'm so sorry. Just, could you tell him? Please?"

Mycroft took another step. John's breath hitched. But he _needed_ this.

"Mycroft, please?"

The older man paused.

"On the condition that you never see him. Never speak with him. I will pass on your benighted apology."

It wasn't nearly enough, wasn't within the realms of enough. But it was all John could hope for after what had gone on, and the condition Sherlock had been left in.

He nodded, "Alright. Yes."

And with one last swift glance at Sherlock's face - slack and still, robbed of the autonomy of his defiant spirit - John took himself away.

It would be alright. I would be alright. Sherlock would be back at Dunston, soon enough, and John would be able to make amends.

...

The next few days were ... a challenge. Molly was as good as her threat and never sought John out, choosing to sit with a group of third year girls she had previously ignored in favour of the Greg and John duo. John watched her from the other side of the hall as he quietly ate his dinner. She seemed happy, gossiping and giggling with the girls easily. She was also wearing make up and jewellery, a habit she'd fallen out of when she'd been 'one of the lads'. Yes, she looked happier for all of it, and John couldn't begrudge her that.

Greg was still about, a bit, but it was third year, finals were looming on the horizon, so both of them were stressed and insular. And, things had changed between them since Sherlock. Greg had never directly confronted John about what had happened, but there was a stiffness with which he greeted John at breakfast, and he never asked if he wanted to go to the bar anymore.

Part of it was John's fault, he knew. He'd changed into a contemplative, monosyllabic person who wandered around college like a dark cloud. He want to bed as early as seemed adult (he at least waited for dusk). As easygoing as Greg was, he had no idea how to deal with it; the only response he knew was to revise harder and play more rugby. After a disastrous rugby practice in which John kept trying to throw the ball to the space Sherlock should have been in, John gave up on the rugby team.

It was a week before John started to worry. No sign of Sherlock. His room was locked tight, the windows constantly dark. Each day the Porters emptied Sherlock's pigeonhole of post, and John watched from the window, nose smudged against the gritty pane.

After three weeks - too long - John plucked up the courage to knock on the Master's door. It swung open, creaking.

"Yes? Ah, Mr. Watson."

The Master favoured him with a benevolent smile, opening the door wider and beckoning him in. John followed tentatively. The Master always reminded him of Dumbledore ... spliced with an assassin.

"Do sit. How goes exam preparation? You're one of our bright sparks, aren't you? We hope for good things." John perched on the rim of the armchair, taking in the ever imposing oak-lined room.

One was never quite sure, when the Master referred to 'we', if he was actually including the stones of the college. It certainly felt like it.

"Well, thank you. I suddenly have a lot of ... time on my hands."

"Good, good. Time is our most precious commodity." The Master sank down in a plush armchair, the stiffness of the movement betraying his advanced age. He peered at John over his glasses, "I assume you are here to enquire as to the wellbeing and whereabouts of Mr. Holmes?"

"I - yes. When will he back?"

For a moment, the Master looked very sad, the twinkle all but dead in his eyes, "Dear boy, he will not be back."

John felt sick to the stomach, as if he might vomit there and then. He tried to catch his breath,

"But - his degree, and I never said-"

"Be calm, Mr. Watson. I am sorry, sorry indeed. Mr. Holmes' family felt that Cambridge is not a healthy place for him at this time. He is ... not well."

"The hospital said he'd make a full recovery!" John protested..

"Physically, yes. But Mr. Holmes is a special boy. A genius, which comes with it's own problems."

John sighed, deflating into his seat, "I ... do you know how I can contact him? An address, a phone number? His mobile isn't on, you see, I tried."

"Mmm," the Master's look was apologetic, "I'm afraid not, Mr. Watson. It has been specifically ordered that we are not to give you any means to contact Mr. Holmes. At all."

John stood, trembling with despair, "It's not fair, please, you don't-"

"I think you'll find I do understand, dear boy. Very well. Bit of a mess, by all accounts. But. Your priority right now should be your exams, and your future?" He stood too, looming over John in the dark room. It should have been terrifying, but it centred John, gave him a focus, kept him from breaking apart.

"What are you going to do with your life Mr. Watson?"

John bit his lip, "I don't know, sir -"

"A shame, you have a lot of potential. Think a little harder."

"I ... was going to do my part two in Cambridge, stay with ... um. I don't think I really can, now."

The Master tilted his head, "So, a different path?"

"Maybe," John shrugged, "I ... I thought about going into the army? Well, I'd shelved the idea but now..."

"Sandhurst then." The Master nodded with finality, "Well I think we could see our way to an excellent recommendation for you. Despite your ... indiscretions. So. Thank you for coming to speak with me. Best of luck."

And John found himself being crowded out of the office, blinking in the daylight. He leaned back against the ancient grey stones, closing his eyes tight.

_It's over._

No tears, not now. Just a dry, tense throat and a sudden headache. A death-like calm. John levered himself upright, walking slowly, through the low dark hallway that separated the Great Courtyard from the Deer Park.

Spring had peeled away the strangling fingers of winter. The change had passed John by before, in his oceanic love and grief, but now he noticed the bramble hedge wove tales between the fencepost, hawthorn creeping round the lawn, bright blossom concealing thorns. The day was bright, but the clouds dark, moving across the sky like prehistoric herds, scuffing the skyline.

John blinked up at them. He couldn't remember taking pause to look up at the sky, not for months.

He breathed clean air, deeply, drinking it, and walked. When had he last walked in silence, thinking of nothing and everything, noticing his own breath? When had he last noticed the creeping buttercups, whose tendrils planted tripwires on the broken ground.

His feet sank through the moist soil into rock. It was quiet. Cool. Distant. It was ... bearable. If Sherlock was where he was safe, and if safe was away from John, then John could be ... alright.


	11. Chapter 11

**A new chapter and by God this took it out of me. THANK you for your reviews. I heart reviews. I'm afraid the angst may not yet be over, but I hope you like the direction I've taken ...**

**9 years later.**

Afghanistan was a land of mournful beauty, John thought, it's sad grandeur and lost grace a testament to the ravages of conflict.

Between desperate spurts of active combat and once all his patients were either stabilised or bagged, John ventured to the far reaches of the Roshan Tower base and pressed his body against the rusted chain-link fence that marked the perimiter, gazing out upon the countryside and what he'd termed the _real_ Afghanistan.

He imagined it had once been warless, bloodless, but now even the earth was tainted with the hand of death, the weeping trees hung over with long grey moss like mournful funeral draperies, topped with brown-winged, songless birds. The camp was flanked by a shallow, stagnant, inland sea, and sick swamp grassed wove in an ill breeze. Deadliness lurked in the air.

There was a sharp crack in the distance, and John flinched against the fence. _Time to take cover._

He reacted without thinking, his training taking over, sprinting away from the vulnerable perimiter edge, towards the cover of the base's buildings. He was afraid, yes, nobody was immune to fear, but his training allowed him to turn that fear into adrenaline, and purpose. Now he ran like a soldier, efficient, low to the ground, always aware of potential threats. His most precious item was his medical kit, and he kept one hand clamped to it's strap.

John's radio crackled violently as intelligence flowed through,

"All units at Roshan Tower this is Intelligence - prepare for air-strike - we have heavy fire from two sides - machine gunners first line - prepare for mortar and grenade fire. We have no air cover today. I repeat, we have no air cover today, so be sensible. Dr Watson please report. OVER."

John felt rather than heard the gutteral rumble of mortar overlapping like a symphony - the croaking of frogs or chirping of crickets. Instinctively he crouched behind a mammoth water tank, lightly resting his SA80 on this thigh.

Sweat trickled ominously into his eyes, stinging - he wiped it away, couldn't let it blur his vision. He lifted his radio,

"Intelligence, this is Dr Watson reporting. Brief me. OVER."

His radio crackled, "Dr Watson we have a soldier badly injured - multiple shots to the intestines. Holed up in Outhouse Four, assisted by Sargaent Lim who has sustained only minor injuries. Please provide location and ETA. OVER."

John steeled himself to sound calm and reassuring. He was the only qualified doctor covering three hundred servicemen, and the nurses were not fully trained military personnel. That meant that when they were under heavy fire, it was all on his shoulders.

"Understood - I'm 50 metres away, Outhouse Four in sight. Switching channels to liaise with Sargaent Lim, please keep me advised. OVER." He paused, waiting for the curt, "Roger that, over and out" from Intelligence before switching channels to reach Sargeant Lim,

"Alright Suse? OVER."

Another crackle, "Not really, cut a pace if you can - we're waiting." Her voice is breathless, and the prerequisite over doesn't come. John lets it go.

Sargeant Susanna Lim was the first soldier John had met when he'd arrived in Afghanistan, a half-Chinese, half-English woman who could beat almost anyone in a fistfight. Tasked with showing John around, she had appreciated his quietitude, and they had often shared a bench at mess. She talked about her fiance, the house they were trying to buy in Woking, and her parents' recent separation. John talked a bit about Harry, and his training at St Barts, but not much else. He omitted entirely his time at Cambridge.

Once she'd peered at him over her canteen and asked, "You never talk about anyone ... special in your life. Is there?"

John gave her a dry smile, "No. I don't really go in for that sort of thing. Army doctor. Too much travel, risk."

She nodded sceptically, "Has there ever been ... anyone really special?"

John had averted his eyes, colouring, "Once. Well, I don't know. I was young, and fucked up. Sandhurst beat the hubris out of me. Bit late, I'd already made a hash of it. A pretty big hash. Not like you and Leo," and he recovered his equinimity, smiling warmly at Susanna.

She was a friend, and a colleague. And right now she was holding a man's intestines inside his body, and drawing heavy mortar rounds. He was going to get to them, he was _going_ to save them.

Hefting his medical pack back onto his shoulder, John raised his rifle, and ran. The sound, when it came like a physical thunder, bringing what felt like half the desert with it, was deafening. John's first thought was, _Gosh, that was close._

And the very next thing he knew was the noise of some poor animal screaming, high-pitched agonised death throes. It took ten seconds to realise it was himself, and to force himself through sheer force of will to stop - the pain was almost blinding. John blinked grains of sand from his eyes, trying to orientate himself in a world of blood and dust and pain. He was on his front, just a metre from the outhouse he had been aiming towards.

Dumbly, John pushed himself to his feet. Shock was setting in, he could feel it, his fingers numb and mind clagging over. He couldn't see his gun but his medical pack was close by and he scooped it up, dimly aware of a wet, slick feeling sliding uncomfortably down his shoulder.

He looked down,

"Oh."

Deep, deep, his shoulder was perforated, a mess of blood and slough and shredded cloth. John could see sharp pieces of shrapnel embedded there, jurassic looking. He bit his lip, knowing immediately that the injury was grave. Though not as grave as shots to the intestines. And he was so close to Outhouse Four. He made his decision.

Thanking God and all his angels for the effective anaesthesia that was shock, John managed to stumble to the door. Shoving it open, he burst in, trying not to gag at the swampy death-stench within.

Susanna's dirt-streaked face peered up at him, hovering pale against the gloom. Her hands were soaked with blood,

"He's dead." she muttered.

John's energy left him like water through a plughole, and he collapsed to his knees without a word.

"John!" Susanna scrambled over to him, "John - what is it, where are you - right, got it." She was efficiently tearing away the remains of his fatigues, and John was dimly aware of her small, rough fingers manipulating his flesh.

He sat propped up in the dirt and grime of the outhouse, bleeding out his life through his chest and shoulder. Pain was a distant concept as delerium stole through him, and John soared on memory - _water becoming ice and faintly if at all snowflakes hover red scarf green wellingtons occupied in the night mum crying how the bells from Kings ring out Harry skipping smiling wailing circuit training pale blue eyes blinking blinking Molly pretty young - _

_"One day you will suffer."_

His mind chose to hook on that memory, faded as it was, with little left but her words. John had chewed over them so many times over the years. They were so _unlike_ Molly. But she had been right. Over the years he _had_ suffered, enduring it in self-imposed hermitude, never falling in love or taking more comfort than sex, with anyone.

And on tour with the army, seeing women stoned to death for crimes that were nothing, young girls raped, boys sent to war as quaking soldiers, men martyr themselves with no real result ... John now understood not just the value of life, but the value of self. He will never, he knows, drive the self from someone again, because he's seen that people will acquiesce, will give, will pour their souls into something and allow it to ruin them, because they believe in that thing, in it's power and validity. They will give until it drains them.

John's world grew dark, as if the fuses had blown.

"John," Susanna's voice drifted from the ether, her tone urgent, "You must stay conscious, stay conscious" A sharp slap to his cheekbone.

"'m conscious..." he groaned.

"Come on John, I'm trying to stop the worst of it. And think how awful it would be to die in a bloody outhouse at Roshan. Think of what's back at home."

_No_, John wanted to say, _there's nothing back at home_. But there had been, once, hadn't there? Good friends, a place to belong, love. Love that he had wasted.

John wasn't aware he was crying (it had been nine years since he last allowed himself the luxury). But he did cry, dry hacking sobs. And he bled. And he only screamed out, sharply, when Susanna prised a particularly jagged piece of shrapnel from his shoulder.

And then Susanna was listening intently to her radio ... John could just make out the words "medical emergency response" and "helicopter" through the static. He sagged with relief.

"Three minutes, then we're bugging out," Susanna said close to his ear.

John allowed his eyes to flutter closed, the darkness to swallow him whole.

...

He won't be going back to the army. They'd have no use for him now, he could never pass MATT 2 in his current condition. Eight months after Susanna plucked jagged shrapnel from his shoulder with unsteady fingers, he is unhealed. His wounds have left him with a legacy of tremours, nightmares and an ungainly limp.

But as hard, as traumatic, as dirty as that life on the edges of the world was, John misses it desperately, needs it. Without it, the tight and angry dark in him rises daily, and he has no idea what to do with it any longer. It becomes a physical pain, shooting down his leg like a lumbar puncture.

He is given a cane. He has to use it.

Technically, life is alright. John has a pittance of an army pension and can just about afford to live, if he's frugal. His world is tiny, himself and his sadness, together in his tiny Stockwell council flat.

Susanna emails when she can, but since John was extracted from Roshan Tower, things have gone from bad to worst. They had, she writes, taken 59 mortars in a day, and at one point were defending a piece of land the size of a football pitch.

_Ours not to reason why, ours but to do._ John types back.

_And die? _She responds.

He smiles sadly at that, and wonders if he _wasn't_ meant to survive. Would it not have been a fitting end for him to die there at Roshan in his element, medical pack still strapped to his back, knowing he had become a good man? Back in London he faces himself again, and while he knows he has retained all those good, patient, self-sacrificing qualities he had gained through years of service, what good are they without _using_ them?

He keeps his gun close to hand, speculatively. He doesn't think he'll do it. But then again, how many more days of bland depression, loneliness, impotence?

He's in that sort of mood on a grey morning, a morning like any other, taking his morning walk through Victoria. Morning hobble was the technical term, perhaps.

Suddenly,

"John, John Watson?"

John doesn't recognise the large, middle-aged man at all.

"Mike Stamford, Barts! I know, I got fat."

For a while, talking to Mike, John forgets his sombre mood. He exchanges pleasantaries, agrees to a quick coffee. There he talks, smiles, mentions he's thinking of a flatmate and jokes, "Who'd want to live with me?"

And oddly Mike is laughing back and saying, "Funny, that's the second time I've heard that this week."

Mike frowns thoughtfully, and John gets the feeling he's being evaluated. He raises an eyebrow. Mike nods, finally,

"I think there's someone you should meet. What are you doing this afternoon?"

They agree to meet outside Barts at 3pm, Mike assuring him that the potential flatmate is always at Barts on this day, at this time. A creature of habit, then, John muses. He wonders if he should dress up a bit, make a good impression, but decides that no, the flatmate won't give a damn and it's best to let people know upfront about his penchant for ugly woollens.

When he arrives, Mike is already there. John gives a little wave, drawing closer,

"Hullo."

"Good to see you. Right. Ready?"

"Of course." They walk. "Lot of effort you're going to, to find your mate a flatmate."

Mike shrugs, "He's done me a few favours. And ... it would take anyone a lot of effort to find someone willing to live with him."

"That bad?"

"Well ... he's separate, put it that way. But you ... I remember at Barts, you had the same sort of air about you. Less external, I suppose, but I think you'd handle him."

John smiles wryly, "Right. Well. Lead the way?"

Mike opens doors for John, searching rooms, "Hmm. Wait a sec, let's go to Molly's labs, she'll know where he is."

John stops, abruptly. He knows he shouldn't even be thinking it, because what a common name, but ...

"Molly?"

"She works in the morgue," Mike smiles, "Bit grim down there, but she's great. One of his oldest friends, though he bullies her something rotten."

John's stomach twists. He's paralysed with - what? It feels, it feels like - like -

"Molly Hooper's one of the best people at Barts, you know. You two'd get on."

Like a hot poker through his brain, his fingers tingle, his head swims. He swallows, mouth dry - _I_ _can't do this._

It's difficult to back away on the cane, though, and Mike is already opening the door, and saying, "Ah, Molly, there you are."

John takes a deep breath, fighting hyperventilation, and peers into the room.

Molly. A woman now, her face more serious, hair shorter, but still essentially Molly, turning with a too-bright smile. She looks exhausted though, and is holding a cup of coffee so strong John can smell it as he shuffles quietly into the room.

She looks past Mike, her eyes rest on John and fly wide.

"Oh God!"

To her credit, she doesn't drop the coffee. John is transfixed by her, the memories she unearthes in him: happiness and youth and innocence. Their eyes lock, hers brimming with tears, his dry and sad. He tries a small smile.

Mike is silent, radiating confusion. The clock ticks. More silence. John can hear his breathing, and hers.

"John?" it's a question. He has no answer for her.

Silence, tense. Broken only by a small creak as the swinging door is pushed open just behind John's right shoulder, where he feels most vulnerable.

_Crash._

Molly's entire body flinches, the mug falls sharply sending dark liquid and splinters of white china across the floor. She's immediately broken from her reverie, shaking her head and starting for the door, babbling desperately,

"No Sh- I mean, no - don't - please go away now-"

"I shan't _go_ anywhere. Where is my coffee? I _specifically_ requested coffee ... what's going on here?"


	12. Chapter 12

**New Chapter! It took longer than I expected and I'm so SORRY because the cliffhanger was evil (I agree, but at least I didn't kill them like I sometimes do) because OMG I almost died writing this and have consumed so much wine my liver has had to take a holiday to Jamaica. It's having a great time. Here's the chapter ...**

John _knows_ that voice. As close and intimate as his own, still separate from the humdrum noise of the universe, despite a decade's silence.

He's imagined this moment so many - too many times - has played over the scene in his imagination until it became thin and worn as an old record. But now that it's come down to it John is frozen, far out at sea in a small boat, his mind keeling dangerously into panic.

"Molly what is going _on_ in here? You look as if you're having digestive issues."

Silence in the room, only the sound of raindrops falling on the window without, a clear and happy rhythm.

And of course Sherlock doesn't recognise the back of John's head, greying and cut to the unforgiving army standard. But John wishes he did. It might make this easier.

He sighs. All the things he should have been for Sherlock ten years ago - brave, strong, noble - he _can_ force himself to be now. Because if John can run through open fire to save the lives of soldiers he's said no more than a polite good morning to over tea, he can damn well turn and face Sherlock.

John sets his jaw - squares his shoulders - bracing for Sherlock as if for gunfire, and turns.

And gasps as their eyes meet, solipsist and soldier.

Sherlock's face a paler shade of white - unblinking - entire body clenched - staring at John as if gazing down on the impossible, with fanatical intensity. John had forgotten how that gaze could feel like a caress or a blade. Now a scalpel, peeling open each layer of John like ripe fruit skin: the premature sun damage, half grown-out army issue haircut, bad jumper, the ugly cane. He shrivels a little inside, ashamed that Sherlock sees him so desiccated, so sad.

John wants to crawl outside his skin, abandon it there to suffer this scrutiny in his stead. Escape. His only salvation is that he is able to look, too, to run his eyes over this new incarnation of Sherlock, a similar but foreign language.

He's less ethereal than before, has lost that metaphysical fragility John once prized so. But what he has lost in elfin elegance, he's gained in strength and a still, deepdark silence that reverberates around the room. He's still very thin, too thin, but somehow more substantial - a genuine broadness to his shoulders, solidity at his neck. John studies Sherlock hungrily, trying to soak as much visual memory into his mind as possible, sure that soon the spell will be broken and he'll be unceremoniously kicked out of St Barts, probably by Sherlock himself.

John takes a deep, steadying breath, ready to begin his long-awaited and much practiced apology. Thank God the words are etched upon his cerebellum because he's reeling.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

"Um." John blinks stupidly, "What?"

Not what John had been expecting at all, and he's very much aware of Molly's frozen horror, her hands over her mouth, eyes flitting between them as if she's watching two trucks skid inoperably towards each other on an icy road. Mike just looks confused.

Sherlock's eyes narrow , "Did you serve in Afghanistan ... or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan."

Sherlock nods curtly, "Hmm." He half-turns towards the door, looks back at John, expression inscrutable. Whatever he's thinking, whatever he sees, he seems to accept it. "Come with me."

Molly steps forward, "Is that really the best idea just because-"

"Shut up Molly," Sherlock bites, "_John_, with me."

John silently obeys, giving Molly an apologetic glance as he follows Sherlock out of the room. It's difficult keeping up with his long, sweeping strides, dragging along with his cane. Sherlock stalks down the hall, fists clenched, coat flowing angrily behind him.

Sherlock reaches the glass double doors well before John, and stands holding one of them open with his long arm, looking out onto the gleaming asphalt of the car park, uncaring of the fat drops of rain that are slowly starting to soak him.

Sherlock lets go, and the door swings shut with a low hiss - the rain begins it's cold, slick descent down John's neck. He looks desolately out onto the deserted car park, hunching his shoulders against a bitter wind, and against Sherlock's scowl.

_Oh god, Sherlock's brought me somewhere he can kill me without anyone noticing. I'm going to die on the bonnet of a Ford Focus._

"Please, Sherlock, I - if we could just come to some kind of physical nonaggression pact before you quite legitimately unleash your wrath..."

He keeps a safe distance from Sherlock, voice calm and even and palms open, reminiscent of his negotiation training at Sandhurst. Apparently he isn't quite soothing enough, because Sherlock's gaze whips from the middle distance, focus swinging round to fix on John. He says nothing, hands in his pockets, pinning John down with those reptilian eyes.

John shifts uncomfortably,

"I had a lot of things I wanted to say-"

"I know." Sherlock blinks slowly, jaw tight.

"No, but-"

"I know, John."

John stops, mouth half open, rain dripping from his eyelashes, "Oh. Um, right. But you see-"

"I do see," Sherlock interrupts again, "You forget I knew you well at Cambridge, too well. You quite clearly are not the same man. I see a man who doesn't just limp _physically _- who has punished himself for years, heaping sadness and loneliness onto his own shoulders. I see. I know. I ... absolve you."

John might be imagining it, but he thinks he hears a slight hitch in Sherlock's voice as he speaks, though the smooth and fathomless expression doesn't change. It has taken Sherlock two minutes to deduce him and, unbelievably, apparently understand.

Suddenly the rain doesn't seem quite so cruel, suddenly John's able to smile, just a little.

"Well, that was ... anticlimactic."

Sherlock arches an eyebrow, "You were expecting ... tears? Proclamations of love and undying devotion?"

"I was _expecting _a bullet in the stomach," John retorts.

Sherlock shifts slightly closer, hands still in his pockets, "Don't think I didn't consider that option."

"But you decided..."

"Not to cut off my nose to spite my face, to employ a parochial phrase."

And suddenly Sherlock is very close, so close John can feel his body heat through the frigid air. John shivers.

Sherlock looks amused, "Cold?" he asks, then answers his own question, "Yes, it is. You won't be used to it. Come with me, we'll get a taxi."

It's a silent, self-conscious taxi ride, and John is aware of moving smoothly through the rain past Kings Cross, skirting a soggy Regents Park. He can't stop himself from stealing glances at Sherlock whose face is dimming in the burgeoning dusk, profile proud and still.

Adult Sherlock: haughty to the point of arrogance, manipulating him, leaving John to follow in his wake. John wonders what he's is _really_ thinking under this veneer of smooth indifference and his careful, relaxed hands on the keys of his mobile phone.

They finally draw to a stop outside an ordinary looking house on an even more ordinary looking street. John clambers up as Sherlock pays the cabbie:

"221B", he murmurs.

"Indeed."

And they stand side by side, shoulders not quite touching, looking at the door.

Sherlock gestures, "Shall we?"

And so they do, John managing the stairs rather well despite the cane, Sherlock not bothering to wait as he takes the steps two at a time.

Inside, the noise from the street is muffled and Sherlock is slipping out of his coat, pottering about, his eyes occasionally resting on John as if to just make sure he is still there.

John has to press his lips together tightly to cage the animal wail of sheer relief that threatens to break free. Alone. With Sherlock.

Eventually Sherlock comes to a stop, watching John from the door to the bedroom. John clears his throat,

"So, this would've been it. It's nice. Just, you know, get rid of a bit of the clutter-"

"My _things_." Sherlock interrupts.

"Or, um, keep them. Sorry." John frowns down at the carpet, blows an awkward breath out, "So, coffee?"

Sherlock looks nonplussed,

"'Coffee' is a euphemism. For copulation. Is that your suggestion?" He enunciates slowly, as if trying to explain basic multiplication to a child.

John's mouth falls open in shock, but what comes out is a distinctly high-pitched, "Have you been Googling?"

Sherlock nods warily.

"Right. Well, actually 'coffee' is a very _clichéd_ euphemism for cop - for sex. And I'm not sure it's, um, appropriate in our situation."

"And what is our situation?"

"One in which 'coffee' should absolutely NOT be on your mind right now! Don't you - don't you want to punch me or - or - tell me what you've been doing with your life or-"

"I think it a little strong to punch a man who uses a _cane_, John."

"So you're just ... letting me back into your life? Just like that?" Despite his best intentions, John's hand flutters up, fussing with the lapel of Sherlock's coat, "You, um, did you hit your head and forget what I did to you? You did didn't you, you have some kind of brain damage, sadly undiagnosed."

John's very much aware that he's babbling, and still touching the coat. Or rather, touching Sherlock a bit more than the coat, now, and that Sherlock's hands are on his shoulders, gently tracing the material concealing his tender scars.

Sherlock shrugs gracefully, "I assume that was an attempt at an apology? Pathetic. In any case ten years have passed; in linear terms I wouldn't call it _just like that_."

"You have _not_ changed," John huffs.

"No. I have not. Is that unacceptable to you?"

"Is it acceptable to you that I _have _changed - beyond all recognition - and not particularly for the better?"

Thankfully, Sherlock nimbly sidesteps the actual question, "You are ever John. And no more intolerable than you were previously. Now can we get on with things?"

"Things?" John frowns.

For the first time Sherlock's blank, evaluative mask slips and genuine frustration leaks through, "You have approximately ten seconds to stop being ridiculous and start taking advantage of my forgiving nature."

John fights the violent blush of shame that threatens to take over, "I didn't want to - want to - make you _do _anything."

"I'm not eighteen, John, and frankly I think the time for chivalry and grand self-sacrificing gestures has passed, don't you?" He didn't wait for an answer, "I will not have you falling on your sword every time you touch me. Nobody enjoys a martyr, _Mr_ Watson."

Sherlock's tone is mocking, a challenge.

_No, of course, _John thinks, _ nothing like the boy he was, in all the ways that matter most._

And that's how Sherlock comes to be pinned between the doorjamb and John, and how John comes to have a mouthful of lip and tongue, of Sherlock's neck, jaw, the side of his face shaven smooth, warm against his teeth, and Sherlock arching up against him, eyes dark and wide, face a shadowed blur.

John groans, low and brutal, trapping Sherlock even more tightly with one hand while tugging his shirt upwards with the other.

Sherlock smirks against John's mouth,

"Pyschosomatic" he mutters softly.

"What?"

Sherlock pulls away - not far - to look down pointedly, still smirking, "Your limp."

John follows Sherlock's highly amused gaze to his cane which is lying lonely and forgotten on the floor.

He blinks, clears his throat, "Of course. Yes. Right. Where's the bedroom?"

...

The transient growls of cars and flickering strobe of streetlights outside the single-glazed window disturb them not at all, as the sky, vast as death's sleep, rolls overhead in unbroken, unburdened blackness.

If anything, what better aphrodisiac than the hungry lights and noise of city life and it's gritty pressures - released in rustling, unromantic triumph - the chink of teeth against teeth, salty tongue, the tearing rolling awkward action of it all. And afterward, the spent drift into dreaming early morning.

No dry-throated goodbyes, no last glimpses of a country hardly explored - just a dark blind drift from a nameless port.


End file.
